Cinders
by pluuto
Summary: The aftermath of the much dreaded and anticipated zombie apocalypse has left the world in tatters. Every day is a battle to survive, both against the undead and the insanity of those left living. With nothing but each other, the Nordics are doing everything they can to survive. But sometimes, everything just isn't enough.
1. Chapter 1

It all started when a meteor hit the surface of the Earth.

The meteor wasn't incredibly big, in fact, it was a wonder that it was even found at all. Barely five feet in diameter, some farmer from America found it one day when he was setting his cows out to pasture. He called a museum near him, who called specialists, who went to see this 'Space Rock'.

They weren't disappointed. It was grey, though it seemed to be tinged with a faint green light. Something about it seemed alive, though they couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. Maybe it was the fact that the greenish light dimmed and brightened every second or so, making it appear like it was pulsing.

Like a heart. A sickly grey heart with an impossibly bright green glow.

They took it to be examined, and it ended up in some U.S. hidden facility where specialists were scrutinizing it and theorizing about what it could be made of.

It wasn't like anything that anyone had ever seen before, this Space Rock. The press had been allowed to snap a few pictures before it was stored away, and those few pictures had made their way around the world in a span of a few short days.

Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, South America, and of course, North America. Everywhere, it was the sole purpose of attention.

They waited for a while, anticipating some result, anything to get excited over. But nothing came.

A month passed, then a year, and things went back to normal. It still sometimes featured in the news as people speculated over what had happened to it, and why the U.S. was keeping it locked up and hidden.

Then the Purging happened.

The farmer who had found the rock found something else, this time on his own body. A pinprick of green had appeared on his wrist. _That's odd,_ he thought, but didn't say anything.

Fast forward a week, and the green had spread. You could see it in his veins, and he seemed to almost glow in the darkness. The color was impossibly bright, and looked like the shade one would expect radioactive waste to be. Disgustingly, sickeningly green.

The farmer started to get worried, and went to the doctor. They didn't know anything, and experimented with a few medicines. Nothing worked. The green kept on spreading, and with it, various symptoms.

His brain started to shut down. He sputtered and wheezed, not being able to form coherent thoughts. He stumbled and staggered, and fell down with every other step he took. His skin grew drier and drier, and it started to blister and crack in some places.

This went on for about a month, one agonizing month where nothing that anyone could do helped him. If anything, they made the sickness worse and more determined to conquer his body.

Eventually, it did. His brain shut down entirely, and he kicked the bucket. His family gave him a funeral, a closed-casket one so that they didn't have to look at the disturbing shade of green his skin was, and how gruesome he looked.

Everything was going fine funeralwise until the casket burst open, and the farmer sat up. He looked, if possible, more horrifying dead than alive.

The undead famer massacred everyone who had attended the funeral, apart from one small girl. She'd run to the police station, and described what happened. They didn't believe her.

That was a mistake.

The undead people, zombies, were nothing like everyone had expected. They weren't slow, or dumb, or like animals.

They were fast as lightning, sprinting impossibly fast on scabby legs. The disease had shut down their brain, but it had awakened their body to its fullest potential, strengthening it to the max.

They weren't dumb. Sure, their brain was asleep. Maybe a better word would be _taken over_. Yeah, the disease had taken over their brain, and was running it on its own accord. It heightened every sense, and processed everything neatly and without fault. The zombies were just as smart as humans.

As for being like an animal? Forget it. One look at the mannerisms of a zombie, at the way it tilted its head softly when it heard a sound, at the way that it walked disjointedly yet with a subtle grace, at the way that it tore and bit and scratched and ripped, and you'd know immediately that the zombies were something more than animals, more than even humans.

Once bitten, it takes around thirty minutes for your brain to shut completely down. You'll kick the bucket in forty-five, and you'll be a fully fledged zombie in an hour.

No one is immune. Not even countries.

Welcome to the show.


	2. Chapter 2

Iceland's head hurts. It's hurt for a long, long time now. Maybe it's dehydration, he isn't sure. There isn't a lot of water to go around, due to the fact that the lakes and rivers have become so polluted that one drink from them is as good as a shot to the head. What little water there is left is either guarded fiercely by other people, or gathering dust while laying on the shelves in derelict markets.

Yeah, it could be dehydration. Maybe it's just the chemicals in the air. Maybe it's just the sickening greenish glow that colors the sky. Maybe it's just the ever-present knowledge that humanity is slowly dying, slowly turning into something strange and alien.

When the attacks had started, everyone had been in a world meeting in Washington D.C., hosted by America. The news had come on in an emergency broadcast to tell the public what was happening. All of the nations had their eyes glued to the T.V., watching footage of attacks in horror.

When the emergency broadcast was over, pandemonium had broken loose. Iceland could still remember Italy's terrified voice as he asked Germany if everything was going to be okay, and the hitch in Germany's as he assured the Italian that it was.

Germany wasn't a very good liar.

The Nordics had attempted to flee back to Scandinavia, but all of the flights and ships were booked. Everyone wanted to get the hell away from the U.S., the place the attacks had started.

In fact, looking back, Iceland wasn't even sure how the disease and zombification had made it across the seas. Of course, the sickness was alien and had come from space, so it had obviously proved itself to be resilient.

Everything was turning into something sprung fresh from one of those dystopian novels that teenagers seemed to love so much. Except this time, it was real.

Still in D.C. with all the rest of the nations, the Nordics had watched as the news agencies continued to broadcast live action footage of attacks, and statistics as to how long this all would last before the militaries took action.

Iceland recalled America being confident in his army's ability to defeat the undead; the hotheaded nation had boasted continuously again and again that one shot to the heart ought to take them down.

But it didn't.

No one could figure out the zombies' weaknesses, if they had any. Blowing off their heads might get you three minutes, maybe less, before they were coming back at you. Shooting them in the heart? No, that wouldn't do a thing. The heart had stopped a long time ago, and the disease was the only thing keeping them alive.

Things had gotten grimmer and grimmer, until one day America said that he couldn't take it anymore. He loaded himself up with weapons, guns, grenades, pistols, assault weapons, you name it, and went out with the tattered remains of the military.

He went down in a blaze of glory. It was all over the news, how one brave individual had led the U.S.' army in its final, desperate attempt to win. America fought bravely and impressively, face set in a look of grim determination.

But America couldn't be a hero all the time. He fell, and when he did, he fell _hard_. His death was broadcast across the world, how he tripped over backward and how the undead swarmed to him, biting and ripping and tearing.

The helicopters that they used for filming got everything. Every last gory detail. The news agencies were long done with filtering explicit material.

When the horde pulled away from America, it looked like he'd been mauled by a bear, or something worse. Iceland didn't like to think about that scene, and he didn't like to remember the reaction of his fellow nations.

England, the nation who was usually so reluctant to show any sign of weakness, broke down and sobbed. He cried his heart out in front of the others, his voice wailing in agony. He pulled at his hair, and rocked back and forth on the floor. France had finally had to restrain him from causing himself too much harm.

Canada stared at the T.V., his mouth slightly open in horror. Iceland was sure that he couldn't believe that his brother, Alfred F Jones, the hero, had been defeated by zombies. A tear had trickled down his face, Iceland remembered, one solitary diamond of a tear.

The others were just as horrified, but out of respect for the ones closest to him, they did their best at not showing it.

Everyone just wanted to be at home. Everyone just wanted for this to be a dream. Everyone kept on wondering _how_ on earth this was possible, _how_ were their zombies, _how_ did they kill America, and _why_ was this happening to them?

But the airlines and ship companies had stopped running. News agencies stopped broadcasting. Everyone left their jobs. This wasn't a matter of scraping a living while making the best of the circumstances, this was a matter of surviving.

The nations had started to split up. Canada had gone back to his place, and the rest of the North American and South American countries had all started the long trek back to theirs as well. The other nations started dividing into groups. It wasn't safe to have all of the countries together, they decided.

Iceland and the other Nordics hadn't the slightest clue where to go, or what to do. So far, they'd just been avoiding the hordes of the undead that roamed the streets, and the gangs of men and women who had decided to take advantage of the apocalypse to run wild and murder.

A few weeks ago, Denmark had found a gun store that hadn't been raided. It was a goldmine. They took some pistols, assault rifles, ammo, whatever they could carry. Iceland himself wore an M16 over his shoulder and two AMT Automag III's in a holster that hung around his hips.

Guns and weapons were always a valuable resource, but food was even more beneficial. Stores and marketplaces were starting to run out, and supplies were getting harder and harder to find.

Finland had taken to shooting birds or other animals that he could find, taking advantage of his expertise with guns. He'd shown Iceland a thing or two about the weapon in the past, so Iceland wasn't half-bad himself.

The thing was, guns couldn't do much. There's no real way to kill a zombie, only to halt it for a little while. Still, their weapons had saved their asses more times than Iceland wanted to count.

Currently, Iceland sits on the edge of a rooftop, one knee brought close to his chest and the other leg swinging off the side of the building. The moonlight is bright tonight, and he can see quite well. He looks around at his family, the only thing left for him to protect.

Norway, his older brother, is leaning on Denmark's shoulder. He was the one that found the seventeen cans of canned pasta today, and Iceland knows how tired he is. His head is tilted, and his mouth is open slightly. Iceland is fairly sure that Norway's asleep.

Denmark is sitting gingerly, not wanting to disturb Norway's rest. He's constantly giving him tender looks, and has one hand curled in Norway's pale blonde hair. He's balanced a can of cold spaghetti against his leg, and is using one hand to scoop out handfuls of the stuff. It's not the cleanest way to eat, but it seems to be efficient enough.

Finland is sharpening a knife and leaning against Sweden. The sunshiny aura that always seemed to surround him is gone now, a grim one replacing it. Sealand was not one of the nations attending the world meeting, and Finland has no idea where he is or whether he's okay or not.

Sweden is counting provisions, one of his arms slung over Finland's shoulders. He stacks canned pasta and canned soups on top of one another, and has a small pile of beef jerky and crackers. Their water supply rests beside that, looking pitifully small. There's only enough for a few days, then they'll have to go scavenging for some more.

"Seventeen cans of pasta, eight cans of soup, thirteen packets of beef jerky, and nineteen packets of crackers," Sweden says, looking up. "That'll last us a little while."

"What about our water?" Iceland asks, and Sweden's expression gets a bit grimmer.

"We've got seven water bottles right now," Sweden responds.

Seven. That's barely enough to last them for a day and a half.

Finland musters a smile, and says, "Well, we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it."

Iceland knows that he's doing his best to keep his voice light and cheery, but Finland sounds the most frightened out of all of them. It's not just in the sound of his voice either, Iceland can see it in the hunch of his shoulders, the dart of his eyes when he glimpses any sight of movement, and the way that his breath hitches in his throat whenever someone brushes against him. He's on edge.

Then again, they all are.

"You should get some sleep, Ice," Denmark says, his voice toned down a bit as to not wake Norway up. "You need the rest."

Iceland is sure that he looks like a ghoul, or something of that sort. He hasn't slept for a while now due to the fact that he hadn't been able to. He'd had insomnia previously, and it had come back with a burning passion during the start of the apocalypse. He doesn't know about his outward appearance, but he does know that every step requires more energy than he's willing to spare. He's completely exhausted.

"I guess I'll try," he says, and lays down on the rooftop, spreading his coat out beneath him and curling up on top of it. "Good night."

"G'night," Sweden says, placing their provisions in a backpack.

"Sweet dreams," Finland says, checking his reflection in the blade of the knife.

"Sleep well," Denmark says, trailing another hand through Norway's pale blonde hair.

Iceland closes his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

A gunshot wakes Iceland, and he shoots up from the rooftop, one hand on his pistol. It didn't come from too near to them, so he's not incredibly worried. But still. In this world, you've got to be careful or you'll wind up _un_ dead.

Everyone else is already up. Finland's bitten his lip at the sound of the gunshot, and Iceland notices his hand straying toward the assault rifle swinging from his hip. He doesn't pick it up, though, he merely lets his fingers graze across the polished black surface. It seems to bring a little comfort to him, and he turns to meet Sweden's gaze.

 _I must have gotten at least a little sleep_ , Iceland thinks, and rubs his eyes.

"Mornin', Ice," Denmark says. He tilts his head toward wherever the gunshot came from. "The gangs are getting closer."

Aah. So that's what it was. Iceland could've guessed as much. Ever since the attacks started, there were some people that seemed to revel in other's terror. They created gangs, and started to murder and torture others for fun. This created a whole new threat, and it meant that everyone had to get a whole lot more careful.

Iceland would've thought that in the event of an apocalypse humanity would've dropped its qualms and worked together to try and find a solution, but he guesses that he just wasn't right.

"We've got to leave this camp and find a new one," Norway says. "Plus, we need more water. We're alright food-wise, for now at least, but we'll need more soon."

Norway had become the planner in the group. He'd calculate risks, and plan raids on markets and stores. He'd observe the hordes and gangs, and record useful information. He was perfectly suited to the job, really.

"Let's go, then. No sense in waiting around to be killed," Finland says, slinging his slightly tattered blue backpack over his back.

Iceland nods.

Everything seems so brisk compared to what it used to be. Thinking about the conversations that they'd had before about stupid and trivial things makes Iceland want to stuff the heels of his palms in his eyes to push back tears. He's angry at himself for not properly enjoying and appreciating the time that they had been given. Now, it's too late.

They make their way down the fire escape of the building that they were staying on the roof of, carefully climbing down the rusty corroded metal.

At street level, they try to stay close to the buildings, each nation clutching their gun closely.

Denmark goes first, followed by Norway, then Iceland, then Finland, and Sweden brings up the rear, constantly turning around and sweeping his gaze across the street to make sure that they're not being followed.

Iceland can't remember a time since after the attacks started that he wasn't filled with fear. He can't remember a time that he didn't want to have his family wrap their arms around him and tell him everything was going to be okay, even though he knows that it probably won't.

A few more gunshots ring out as they walk, each one of them causing Iceland to start in fear, leaving him trembling slightly as they walked. He hated feeling like this. He hated feeling weak and like prey. He was a nation, for God's sake, and here he was, heart beating as fast as that of an animal backed up into a corner with nowhere to run.

"Look, a market!" Denmark says, gesturing to a building that at one point was probably white, but had now faded to a dusty beige. It doesn't look too disturbed, and Iceland hopes that there might be water and food still there.

Cautiously, they make their way toward it, padding softly on the cracked cement. Once they reach the shade of the awning over the front door, Denmark checks again that his assault rifle is fully loaded and steps inside the market. They follow him, and it takes Iceland's eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness.

Once they do, he's able to use the dusty light filtering through the grimy windows to see rows upon rows of shelves. The market is bigger than he thought. That only makes him grip the handle on his M16 tighter, and wish he was better at shooting.

A few items are left on the shelves, and the Nordics all rush forward to gather what they can. Iceland crams some more beef jerky, some crackers, some dried fruit, a few granola bars, and six tins of canned tuna into his backpack. He looks up, making sure that he can still see the others. Norway's found where they kept the water, and is shoving as many bottles as he can into his backpack.

Iceland is starting to feel uneasy.

The market shouldn't have had that many food items and that much water, it was right in the middle of a city that had turned into a battleground of resources and life. Something seemed off, and the more Iceland thought about it, the more sure he was.

"Guys? I think that maybe we should go…" Iceland says, looking around uncertainly. "We've got food and drink, now let's find shelter."

Iceland could see Norway and Sweden nodding. He's sure that they have picked up on the slightly scared note in his voice, it isn't hard to miss. Denmark and Finland cast another wistful glance around the store, but satisfy themselves by what they have already in their backpacks.

When they reach the door, Iceland finds himself glad to be back out in the sunlight rather than in the dusky light of the marketplace. He takes in a breath of air, and exhales slowly. Maybe he was just being silly. His nerves were on edge, and they had a good reason to be. But seriously, he needed to chill a little.

Just then, a hoarse shout draws his attention.

The voice is hard to make out, but Iceland is positive that whoever it came from was calling out for help. He's not sure whether to run toward or away from it. Denmark and Finland make this decision for him by immediately sprinting towards it.

 _They've got big hearts, but this is life or death,_ Iceland thought, biting his lip as he ran after them. _And I'd rather not die."_

He knows that those thoughts are selfish, but he can't help it. Ever since he was little, a new nation, lost in the snow, he had been afraid of death and dying. Nations were immortal until their country got dissolved or destroyed, and even them some of them lived on, like Prussia. That's what Norway told him when Iceland was afraid.

When he was young, it was so easy. He could just go to his big brother for help, or when he wanted comfort, and he was sure to receive it. Norway could be extremely curt with others, but he was never that way with Iceland. When Iceland grew older, however, things changed. He wanted to be seen as an equal with his family, not as someone who was weak and constantly needed protection.

God, Iceland misses those times. He'd trade anything he could (apart from his family) to be able to go back and hide in the past, afraid of the future.

But Iceland isn't an idiot. He knows that's impossible. So he grits his teeth and runs on, trying to block those unhelpful thoughts from his mind.

They reach the source of the voice, and Denmark stops immediately, Finland running into him with an _oomph_.

It's a woman. And from the look of her, she's just been Infected.

Her skin is starting to blister and crack, veins starting to turn green all over. There are some pustules popping up, some of them already bursting. Her entire body has now become a faint shade of green, emitting a strange, weird glow, visible even in the bright mid-morning sun.

The woman's voice is a dry croak, an aching rasp of what it used to sound like. She looks at them, and her eyes widen slightly. They're the one thing that stays the same when you're Infected. Your body changes, growing stronger and faster, but your eyes? They remain the exact same. Except for the fact that they appear hauntingly empty, devoid of a human soul.

"H-help me," she wheezes, struggling to speak every word. "Please."

Iceland isn't sure what she means. Surely she can't think that they can fix her from her current state? She's got forty-five minutes left to live, from the look of her, and Iceland is positive that they won't be pleasant ones.

He understands when Denmark pulls out a pistol and levels it at her head.

 _He's going to put her out of her misery._

It's an act of kindness, really, Iceland has heard the screams of the Infected people as they die. Screams of agony and pain, echoing through the empty streets and ricocheting from building to building.

Still, Iceland looks away when Denmark pulls the trigger.

She'll still turn into a zombie, the disease is too far inside of her now. But this way, she won't have to suffer through the entire process.

Denmark slides the pistol back into its holster on his hip. He doesn't say anything. None of them say anything. They keep walking, though pick up the pace so that they're gone by the time that the woman has turned into a full-on zombie.

The concrete that their walking on is cracked. In some of the cracks, small shoots of grass are starting to spring up, and various other plant life has started to take over the city. There are saplings growing through some of the bigger cracks in the street, though Iceland isn't entirely sure how. The water is just as polluted as the disease, and plants need water to grow.

But Iceland finds it slightly ironic, as if nature was claiming back its land from humanity, one blade of grass at a time.

"Look," Norway says, startling Iceland out of his reverie. He's pointing to a tall brick building. On top of the roof, Iceland can just make out a few tables and umbrellas, the kind that someone would have on a restaurant's patio.

"Let's try t' find a way up it," Sweden says. "It looks like it'll do fine."

They walk around the building, and find a ladder bolted into the side in the alley. It's just as rusty as the fire escape of their last hiding place, so Iceland has to be careful as he climbs up it. He's half-worried that one of the rungs will just give out beneath him and he'll fall. He tries not to think about that.

When he reaches the top, he clambers over the little wall built at the edge of the building and onto the rooftop. There's three tables, each with an umbrella. Iceland is a little surprised to find that the umbrellas haven't blown away, but upon closer inspection he notices that they're bolted down to the roof.

There's a door, presumably leading down to the rest of the restaurant. Iceland doesn't care to find out. It's not very safe to go into a building that you don't know. Sure, sometimes they have to do it to find food, water, and other supplies, but when it's not absolutely necessary it's not a good idea.

He drops his backpack off in one of the chairs, slinging it off of his shoulder. The rest of the Nordics each do the same. Denmark plops himself down in his chair, running a hand through his spiky hair.

He may not act like it, but Iceland is fairly sure that Denmark was affected by shooting the woman more than he would care to admit. Even though he used to be a viking, the Dane hadn't killed anyone for a long, long time.

Iceland takes out a granola bar, and unwraps it. He didn't have breakfast, and he can hear his stomach growling.

Norway is eating a can of tuna, Denmark is eating some more pasta, Sweden is eating a pack of jerky, and Finland is eating a bag of dried fruit.

 _High quality lunches._

And they are, really, compared to the sorts of things that other people had taken to eating, like rats, garbage, and grass.

Iceland sits back in his chair, leaning against the hard plastic and chewing his granola bar slowly, savoring every last bite. There's hardly enough food to ever be completely full, so each morsel is treasured and valued.

"These food provisions should last us for about a week, maybe a little more," Norway says, checking how many bottles of water he was able to cram into his bag. "I've got eight bottles, plus the seven that we had before. That'll be okay for now, but we'll have to refresh our supply in a few days."

"Ahh, that's fine, but let's just give ourselves a bit of a break," Denmark says. "We've earned it."

"I s'pose we have," Sweden says, sealing what's left of the contents of the jerky bag. "But only for a few days."

Denmark grins and pulls out a pack of playing cards.

"Have you been keeping those with you all this time?" Iceland asks incredulously.

It seems like a bit of a waste of space, but it also seems like just the thing that Denmark would do.

"Yup," Denmark responds, shuffling them and dealing them out. "Anyone up for a round or two of gin?"

They all agree that yes, they are indeed up for a round or two of gin, and Denmark smiles and deals out the cards.

Norway's the best at most card games, and normally he's the undisputed victor, but Finland seems to be the lucky one for today.

It feels nice to play a game, even one as simple as gin. Iceland finds himself glad that Denmark brought the playing cards, even though it's a bit impractical. He finishes the granola bar, and places the wrapper in his backpack. Even though it's the end of the world and all, he hates to litter, so he does that as little as possible.

Even if it is just a card game, soon Finland has a small smirk on his face, Sweden's not looking quite so grim, Norway's less-emotional-than usual facade has started to slip away, and Denmark's full on laughing, his boisterous gales of laughter sweeping through the air. It's loud, and Iceland wishes that he would be more careful. But he does have to admit, it is rather nice to have the other Nordics in a pleasant mood again.

He just doesn't know how long it will last.


	4. Chapter 4

A few days have passed, and the break that they gave themselves helped a lot. Iceland feels more rested than usual, though sleep was still fairly difficult to come by. He hopes that they might find some melatonin to help him fall asleep in the next market that they went to.

They've not yet exhausted their food supply, but they're completely out of water. They've been that way for a half a day, and everyone's starting to get a bit dehydrated.

It's early morning. The sun hasn't yet come up, and the sky is painted a pretty array of pastel colors. The clouds are a soft, pale grey, and Iceland likes to imagine that he can hear the chirps of birds. All this is, of course, tinged with that ever-present sickly green.

Norway's still asleep, curled up beside a table on top of his jacket. The rest of them are standing up. Iceland, Denmark, and Sweden have volunteered to go find more water. Iceland isn't sure what prompted him to make that choice, but he had made it, and here he was. Maybe it was because Norway hadn't wanted him to, and there was still that part of him there that wanted to rebel.

Finland and Norway were going to stay back to watch the camp. Iceland had no idea how Norway is going to let him go with Denmark and Sweden. Sure, there'd been a bit of a disagreement at first, Norway had declared that no, he was not going to let his little brother go off to find the water, and that he could go instead of him.

Iceland had protested at that, and had said that he was old enough to make his own decisions. The rest of the Nordics backed him up at that. 'It's the end of the world,' Finland had said, 'Iceland's fully capable of doing this and being safe, Nor. The ones I'd be worried about are Denmark and Sweden.' Norway had finally relented with a forced exhale, and threw his hands up in defeat.

Still, Iceland is sure that if Norway was awake he'd take that back, and demand that Iceland stay back at the base. That's why they're leaving this early.

Finland smiles at them, and says, "I'll see you guys soon!"

 _He doesn't know that_ , Iceland thinks. _He's only saying what he wants to hear._

Of course, Iceland wants that too. He doesn't want to die, oh God, he really does not want to die. There's still so many things that he would like to do, though with the Earth in the state that it is, he's not sure that he'll ever get the chance to do them. Still, he can dream.

"Of course," Denmark responds brightly. "We'll be back before you know it!"

With that, the trio descends the ladder. Halfway down, one of the rungs breaks off under Sweden's feet. He curses. He's okay, his arms are strong enough to hold him up, but that startles them all. They descend more carefully, Iceland testing the strength of the rungs before putting his full weight on them.

Finally, he steps off the ladder and onto the cracked concrete of the ground. He looks up at Finland, who gives him a little wave from the top of the building. Iceland waves back, then turns toward Denmark and Sweden.

"Which way do we go?" he asks. "Right or left?"

Denmark looks both ways, and thinks for a moment before saying, "Right. Let's go right."

They start to walk in that direction. Each of them has their guns armed and ready to fire at a moment's notice, though Iceland realizes that none of them are the best shot. Still, they're each decent enough to survive.

Many of the windows on the first floors of buildings are shattered, probably results of the gangs. There are stains coating the pavement in some places, most of them a dark brown color that looks an awful lot like dried blood. Iceland walks past those, keeping his head turned away.

 _Don't look don't look don't look don't look_ , he thinks, gritting his teeth. _Don't think about what'll happen if the gang finds you._

It isn't as if he hasn't imagined it before. He couldn't help himself, and insomnia certainly did not help. He's sure that they'd torture him for their fun, enjoying his screams of pain. He thinks that they might laugh maniacally as he cries. It gets worse from there. Iceland blocks those thoughts out of his mind.

 _Focus_ , he reminds himself. _You get distracted too easily_.

They've been walking for a little while now, maybe twenty minutes. Iceland isn't sure, his watch ran out of batteries the second month. Denmark and Sweden are the only ones that have watches now, Finland's ran out of batteries and Norway gave his to Denmark.

Iceland hasn't seen any place that looks like it might contain water, and the ones that he does see have all been noticeably raided. It was a stroke of luck to find that market when they did, but Iceland isn't sure that they could find it again. They took a bit of a roundabout course to get away from the woman's corpse before it turned.

As he's thinking, Denmark and Sweden are talking behind him. Their murmurs are starting to grow heated, and Iceland realizes that they're beginning to get into an argument.

 _Shit_ , he thinks. _We can't afford to be arguing at a time like this…_

His thoughts have a sort of desperate ring to them, as if he already knows that something bad is going to happen. His heart rate starts to pick up, and Iceland can feel his breaths begin to get shorter and faster. Both Denmark's and Sweden's voices have started to grow louder, and the volume isn't stopping. They haven't argued for a while, and it might've been a bit obvious that one was due to break out at any time.

"Well, maybe if _you_ hadn't made us go to the conference, we'd be back in Scandinavia!" Denmark says angrily, shoving Sweden a little bit. "I didn't want to go, remember? I said we could just ditch this one!"

"Stop blaming everything on me," Sweden demands, shoving Denmark back. "Do you really think that Scandinavia is better off than here?"

"Maybe not, but at least we'd be home! I have no fucking idea where anything is in this God-forsaken country!" Denmark spits out. He's shouting now.

"You knew as well as I did that we had t' go to the conference, we've been missing too many due t' illnesses!" Sweden shouts back. "It's not my goddamn fault!"

Iceland whirls around. "Guys," he hisses. "Please shut up."

They ignore him, and things continue to get more heated. Iceland is looking around wildly now. He's positive that they're drawing attention to themselves; unwanted attention.

"Go fuck yourself, you Swedish asshole!" Denmark yells.

"Likewise, Denmark," Sweden responds, yelling. He's intimidating almost all the time, but when yelling he becomes something that Iceland is truly afraid of.

"Guys," Iceland pleads, "please stop arguing. Someone's going to find us!"

He grasps Denmark's arm as an attempt to stop the Dane from swinging a punch at Sweden. He doesn't succeed, and Denmark hits Sweden in the face.

Sweden retaliates by kicking Denmark, and soon they're all-out physically fighting. Iceland wants to try to intervene again, but he's sure that if he gets to close he's going to get a first to the stomach or a kick to the ribs.

So he stands, his palms sweaty as he clasps his gun all the tighter. Both Denmark and Sweden have dropped theirs on the asphalt, and Iceland realizes that he's the only one out of the three of them that's armed currently.

And he's the worst shot.

Denmark and Sweden's fight is so loud that at first he doesn't hear it, and when he does, it sends shivers down his spine and sets his hair on end.

The pounding of feet and the rasping shouts that signify that not one zombie, not two zombies, but an entire horde of zombies is coming.

 _Oh shit._

"Denmark! Sweden! We have to run!" Iceland screams.

Sweden looks up from where he has Denmark in a chokehold, and Iceland can see both of their faces visibly pale. He lets the Dane go, and picks up his gun. Denmark does the same, and the trio takes off sprinting in the opposite direction of the horde.

Luckily, the direction that they're running is the direction back to the base. If they can just make it there, up the ladder and onto the roof, then they should be safe. Iceland doesn't think that the zombies can climb, or at least, he's never seen one that can.

But the undead are a shit ton faster than everyone expected, and as Iceland looks into his shoulder, he can see the horde running after them. The zombies are terrifying, looking like rotting green humans with disjointed limbs. They run with a weird lope, crookedly, yet with a predatory grace that terrifies Iceland. He turns his head back, and focuses on not tripping and dying.

They continue sprinting, and Iceland starts to get winded. His breath is coming in ragged gasps, and each inhale seems to scrape painfully against the sides of his throat.

It becomes apparent that they are not going to make it back to Norway and Finland before the horde catches them, so Denmark takes a sharp right turn into an alley.

"We have to get onto the rooftops!" he yells, panting. "They can't get us on the rooftops!"

Iceland searches for a ladder or a fire escape, something that they can use to climb away from the horde. He can't see one. But at the end of the alley, there's a brick wall that's about ten feet high.

 _Fuck,_ Iceland thinks _. We're trapped._

Denmark and Sweden notice the wall as well, but still keep on running forward. From the sounds coming from behind him, the horde just entered the alleyway behind them.

When they reach the wall, Denmark wastes no time in picking Iceland up and helping him pull himself up onto it. Sweden does the same for Denmark. Now all that's left to do is for Denmark and Iceland to pull up Sweden.

The horde sprints toward them, and Iceland imagines that he can see maniacal grins on their dislocated jaws, evil smiles and coarse laughter. That's stupid. The zombies can't feel any emotion.

Denmark reaches down, and interlocks his hands with Sweden's. He starts to pull him up. The zombies reach them, but Sweden kicks them away from him. One of their heads flies off, landing a little ways back in the alley. It's a truly gruesome sight.

Sweden begins to pull himself up as well, still kicking at the zombies that try to bite through the leather of his boot. He succeeds, barely, and they take a moment to catch their breath while standing on the wall. Sweden wasn't bitten, which was a very good thing.

The zombies had started to foam at the mouths, and were practically ripping each other apart in an attempt to get closer to their near-victims.

"I think we can try to climb onto the roof from here," Denmark says, his voice raspy.

The wall that they're standing on is wide enough for them to easily balance, but Iceland is still terrified that he's going to trip and fall down to the mercy of the horde.

They approach the side of the building beside them, and use the notches in the stone to pull themselves up. It appears that the original owners of the building were going for a basic, rocky look, and Iceland is glad that they did. It makes it easier to climb.

They reach the roof, which isn't that high off of the ground. The building is only two stories. Iceland sits down on the rooftop, trying to catch his breath and to calm his racing heartbeat.

"You guys," he wheezes at Denmark and Sweden, "are idiots."

They look a bit ashamed. They also look a bit beat up. Denmark is sporting a black eye, and a few bruises are starting to form. Sweden has a cut on his cheek and a bruise on his collar bone peaking through his shirt. Of course, that's only what Iceland can see. He's sure that there's a great many more bruises and cuts elsewhere on their bodies, as their fight had seemed particularly vicious.

"I guess we deserve that," Denmark says. He turns to Sweden. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Sweden says. "Though you are an idiot." He turns away before Denmark can retort, and faces Iceland. "Sorry, Ice."

Iceland nods to accept the apology, and goes back to staring at the rooftop. His heart's still racing, and he can't seem to calm his breathing. Panic still overwhelms him, and it's not helping that he can still hear the sounds of the horde in the alley beneath him.

"We should get going," Iceland says. "Let's get back to Norway and Finland."

They won't get the water, but at this point, it doesn't seem like any of them care. They just want to make it back to the camp. They can get water later.

It took them around twenty minutes to get to the place where Denmark and Sweden started arguing. It takes them around two and a half hours to get back to the camp. They walk on the rooftops. City roofs are easy to walk across due to the fact that the buildings are close together, but when they reach the edge of the block they are forced to get back down to street level. Once they reach the next one, they climb back up.

It's an exhausting process, and when they finally make it to the rooftop where Norway and Finland are waiting anxiously, Iceland is completely drained. He's staggering, and his legs are going numb.

They don't have to climb up the ladder, thank God, they just need to leap from the edge of one building to another. Norway's looking slightly pissed, Iceland assumes that it's at the fact that they left before he woke up. But relief is also evident in both Finland's and his expressions.

The gap between the buildings isn't particularly large, only about five feet across. Sweden jumps across first, crossing the distance easily. He's the tallest out of them, so of course it would be simple for him.

"Go ahead, Ice," Denmark says. "I'll spot ya."

Iceland isn't entirely sure why Denmark says that, it's obvious that if he falls he's going to fall hard. Onto the concrete, the cracked and stained concrete of the broken down city.

 _Let's not think about that, okay?_

Iceland nods, and takes a deep breath. He backs up a little from the edge so that he can get a running start, and then sprints forward. He feels the rooftop vanish beneath him, replaced by the empty space of an alley, and then lands on the other roof. It isn't a particularly graceful graceful landing, like Sweden's; Iceland falls on his side and gets the wind knocked out of him.

As he's recovering his breath, Denmark bounds across effortlessly, landing in a kneeling position beside Iceland. He extends a hand, and pulls Iceland up to his feet.

"What the hell happened?" Finland asks, noticing Sweden and Denmark's wounds. "Did you run into the gangs?"

"Well y'see–,"

Iceland interrupts Sweden and says, "They ran into each other, that's what happened. They can't keep their punches to themselves."

"What?" Finland asks, whirling around to face Sweden. "Is that true, Sve?"

Sweden looks ashamed.

"This is the end of the world as we know it," Norway says, one hand on his hips. He's regained some of his old sass, Iceland notices. "And here you two are, fighting. It's a wonder a horde didn't get you."

"It did," Iceland said, "but we escaped."

Norway closes his eyes, and exhales exasperatedly. "Denmark," he says. "Sweden. You better not let anything _ever_ happen to Iceland."

"Don't worry Nor, he's fine," Denmark says, putting his hands up to show that he didn't want to argue. "We're all okay."

 _That's debatable_ , Iceland thought. _I haven't felt_ that _afraid for a very long time._

"Did you end up getting any water?" Finland asks hopefully.

Sweden shakes his head. "T' was all that we could do t' get out of there."

"Oh. Okay," Finland says. "Just… take it easy for a while. We can try again tomorrow, when we're all rested up."

"And this time, actually try to be careful," Norway says.

"Aww, would you miss me?" Denmark asks, grinning crookedly at him. "Don't worry Nor, nothing's gonna happen to us as long as I'm around!"

Norway bites back whatever response he has stored up ready to go, and instead simply lets out another long, drawn out sigh. "Just… be careful, you idiot…" he says.

"We will," Sweden says. "Sorry."

"You're all okay for right now, and that's what really matters." Finland hurries over to his backpack and gets out the small first aid kit that he's crammed in there. He's become the self-appointed medic of the Nordics. "You guys really did a number on each other."

Denmark waves off Finland's attempt to help him, fixing him with a smile and saying, "Don't worry Finny, they're just flesh wounds."

"They're wounds. In your flesh. Cooperate," Finland replies, and fishes a tube of ointment out of the first aid kit. "I'm going to put some arnica on your bruises, but I can't treat your black eye."

"S'okay," Denmark says. "It makes me look cool."

After Finland finishes with Denmark and Sweden, he places his kit back in his bag and grabs three cans of soup. He hands one to Iceland, then to Denmark and Sweden.

"You guys need to eat. Just take a break. It'd be nice if we had water, but that can wait, for a little while at least," Finland says.

Iceland uses the can opener that Denmark hands to him to open his soup. He tilts the can, and drains it all with just a few gulps. It's enough to sate his thirst and hunger for at least a little while, and he sets the can down gratefully.

His hair is messy from running, and as he runs a hand through it, he notices how oily it is. Showers haven't really been an option for a while, though sometimes Iceland can scrounge up a packet of moist towelettes. It's not much, but it's certainly the best option that they have. Everyone has gone pretty much immune to the smell, which was certainly a bonus.

But still, he dislikes the feeling of it. Iceland's hair is longer than it used to be, and it curls against the nape of his neck in a slightly wild silvery mess. Its color is a lot more muted than it used to be, and it looks more like a dark grey than like its usual pale silver.

Iceland doesn't want to leave the shelter of the roof ever again. He wants to sit up here, on the plastic chairs under the dark maroon umbrellas, with his family while the world as they know it crumbles around him.

He wants to keep them all safe. He doesn't want to die. He wants them all to make it through this, coming out of the other side wherever that other side may be.

Iceland's heart has begun to hurt. He can't bear to think of what would happen if he lost just one member of his family. But his thoughts are getting harder and harder to block, and his imagination is fueled by his despair.

He wants to cry.

But he doesn't.


	5. Chapter 5

"Alright, we'll be back in a few hours!" Finland says from where he's standing at the edge of the roof. "And this time, we're not going to let ourselves get _distracted_." He fixes Denmark with a beady gaze at that.

Denmark shrugs. "I already apologized."

"Be careful," Norway says. "And try to bring back some water."

"We will," Sweden responds.

Sweden and Finland head down the ladder. Iceland watches them until they reach the ground, then looks away. He hasn't set foot on the ground since yesterday, after their little fiasco. He's afraid to. He's so, _so_ afraid. But Iceland has done his best to not show it, and his best is fairly good.

"And now, we wait," Denmark says. He's a little antsy, and Iceland knows that it pains him to see the others risking their lives without him.

"And worry," Iceland says, sitting down on his army jacket.

"That too." Denmark reaches into his backpack for his pack of playing cards. "Anyone want to play a game?"

Norway gives him a look. "A game, right now? Really, Denmark?"

"It'll pass the time," Denmark responds.

So they play. It's mindless. Iceland knows that all of their thoughts are with Finland and Sweden. He hopes that they're okay, and there's a part of him that's yelling at him that he should've volunteered to go with them.

But that tiny part is overwhelmed by the sheer force of his fear. Fear for himself, his family, and the world that he loves. Fear that this will never get better, fear that some of them won't make it, and the tiny nagging voice that assure Iceland that the rest of the Nordics would be better off if he were gone.

Iceland squashes that voice deep into the darkest corners of his mind.

 _I'm not going to let that drag me down. I'm going to be brave,_ he thinks. _I have to be._

One hour passes. Then two, then three. Still, there's no sign of Finland or Sweden. The city is silent, eerily quiet.

Finally, it's been four hours since they said goodbye to Finland and Sweden. Denmark's smile has become forced. Norway's expression has tightened. Iceland feels a hollowness growing in his chest.

And just when they start to lose all hope that either of them are coming back, a happy shout reaches their ears. It comes from the alley.

Iceland darts up, and Denmark and Norway follow him. He looks over the edge, and sees Finland waving cheerfully at him.

"Guys!" Finland shouts. "Come down here! We've found something you should see!"

Iceland makes sure that the pistols in the holster on his waist are fully loaded, and that the M16 that hangs from a strap that runs across his back is in working order, then starts to climb down the ladder.

When he reaches the ground, he straightens up to look at Finland. "What is it?" Iceland asks curiously. "Where's Sweden?"

Finland's smile broadens. "You'll see soon!"

They follow as he walks out onto the street, crossing it and heading down another. Iceland can feel his heart rate escalating just from being on the ground. He tells himself that it's okay, that if Finland is happy then Iceland should be too. So he tries to quell the fear with the knowledge that his family is right beside him, and that Finland is a good enough shot to buy them time enough to escape if they need to.

The city is still quiet, and there is no wind. It's a relatively hot evening, and Iceland is starting to regret wearing his army jacket.

They keep on walking for around half an hour before noises finally start to reach their ears. At first, Iceland is apprehensive and afraid, and he clutches his gun closer to him. But as they draw nearer, he realizes that the voices are laughs.

Iceland steps around the corner of a building, and follows Finland as he clambers over a pile of rubbish that serves as a barricade against outside forces. The alley is shady, but Iceland can easily see Sweden sitting next to some more people, all of them encircling a small campfire.

It's Germany, Romano, and Italy.

 _How the hell is Italy still alive?_ Iceland thinks. _It's probably the joint effort of Romano and Germany…_

"Finland! You're back!" Italy says cheerfully, waving at them. "Come over here! We've got dinner!"

Iceland sits down between Norway and Sweden, looking around the fire at the faces that he hasn't seen for ages. They're all worse for the wear. Germany looks exhausted, probably from the effort that it takes to keep both Italy and Romano alive. Romano looks crabby, and has dark circles under his eyes. Italy seems okay, but Iceland can sense that there's a damaged part of him that will never be fixed.

"Hello," Germany says. "It seems you've found us."

"It seems we have," Norway responds. He looks like he's about to say more, but Denmark intervenes.

"Do ya guys have water, by any chance?" he asks hopefully. "We ran out a couple of days ago."

"You don't need to ask them, Denmark, Sweden and I found a whole lot of water! We were walking from place to place, ducking in to see if any had been stashed or stored, when we met these guys at a pharmacy!" Finland says. He chuckles. "Of course, we were about to shoot each other before we recognized who we were. Good thing for all of us that Italy butted in."

Italy smiles when he hears his name, and says, "I knew it was Finland and Sweden from the moment I laid eyes on them! I didn't want them to get shot."

How Italy knew it was Finland and Sweden is beyond Iceland; the Italian seemed to love walking around with his eyes closed all the time.

Finland passes out the water, and Iceland chugs his down gratefully. Even though it's warm and tastes like plastic, Iceland swears that water has never tasted sweeter than it does now. He sighs contentedly when it's finished, and sets the empty water bottle aside.

"How have you guys been surviving?" Germany asks.

Finland explains to him everything that had happened from the attacks to where they are now, how they had been confused and unsure and scrounging to survive, how they had found the gun store, how they'd raided a camping store and took what they could find (that's where Iceland got his army jacket), and how many close calls they'd had with both gangs and the horde, though none of them had been caught yet.

"And what about you?" Sweden inquires.

"Well, after everyone started breaking apart into groups, Prussia and Italy decided to stay with me, and Italy brought Romano with him. We were just as confused as you were, at first. The plan was simple. We just had to make it through each day, and hope that things would get better. I already had weapons with me, a G36, a pistol, and two knives, but neither Italy nor Romano had any weapons with them. I gave Italy my knife, and Romano has my pistol.

"We've had one run-in with a gang, and more run-ins than we'd like to count with the hordes. The one with the gang happened three weeks ago. They caught us unprepared, but we were able to fend them off. They did manage to shoot Romano in the ankle, though, so I've had to carry him for the past weeks. Also…. Also, we're not sure where Prussia is. He vanished a little while ago.

"Really, we're just trying to make it through each day. That's all we know for right now," Germany finishes.

Finland looks over at Romano. "Have you wrapped the wound and disinfected it?" he asks.

"What do you think?" Romano snaps. "This is the fucking apocalypse, do you expect me to be a walking first-aid kit?"

"Is that a yes, or a no?" Finland asks. "It sounds like a no."

"Actually, I fixed him up as best I could. I think that he'll be okay," Germany says. "He just needs to give the wound time to heal."

"Hey, we have dinner!" Italy says, waving a can of pasta at them. "Germany, can you heat these up?"

Germany opens them and places eight cans of pasta by the fire, close enough to the flames and the embers that they'll warm up rather quickly.

 _They're sharing quite generously,_ Iceland notes, wondering how they can afford to be so kind. Maybe they have a lot of food stashed up, or maybe they have a reliable place to find more. Either way, it's a kindness that Iceland appreciates greatly.

"Here," Germany says, nudging a can toward Iceland with his boot. "It shouldn't be scalding. Just a bit warm."

Iceland picks up the warm tin can. It's hot enough to make his hands uncomfortable holding it, but he doesn't set it down. He hasn't felt warmth like this since before the attacks. The Nordics decided that it wasn't a good idea to have a campfire, and that it might draw unwanted attention to them, but at this point, Iceland really wasn't complaining.

He gulps down the pasta, tilting the can back and letting its contents slide into his mouth. The pasta isn't that hot, but it was warm enough to taste absolutely delicious. Iceland savors every last bite.

Around him, the others are feeling similar feelings.

Norway is sitting cross-legged, scooping out the pasta with his hands. He may not be smiling, but Iceland has been around him for long enough to know that he's content. Denmark has tipped the entire can into his mouth, and swallows all the pasta in just a few bites. He lets out a long, drawn-out sigh, and closes his eyes. Finland is eating it like Norway, and he's got a smile upon his face. Not a fake one, like he's had for the past while now, but a real, genuine smile. Sweden tips the can into his mouth, but he doesn't gulp it all down at once like Denmark. When he finishes, he sets the empty can next to Iceland's. His features have softened out a bit, and he looks rather peaceful.

"That was delicious," Denmark says, patting his stomach. "I haven't eaten something that tasted that good since everything went to shit."

Italy smiles at him, and says, "Hang on, I've got something else!" He rummages through his bag, and pulls out a bar of Hershey's chocolate. "Here!"

He passes it around, and Iceland finds himself with two squares of milk chocolate cupped in his hands. He lifts one carefully to his mouth, and takes a little nibble.

 _Holy hell this is the best thing that I've ever had_ , he thinks, and shoves the rest of the chocolate in his mouth. It's just so _good_.

The taste is sweet, but not too sweet. It's rich, and Iceland realizes how much he actually missed the taste of chocolate. It's simply sublime.

"Where did you find all this food?" Iceland asks, sitting back a little.

"There was a huge supermarket that we found a few weeks ago. We're still living off what we got from there," Germany responds. He looks at the darkened sky. The sun went down a while ago, and it's started to become quite cold. "It's probably not safe for you to return to wherever you're hiding in the night, so why don't you stay here with us?"

The Nordics look at each other. They left all their stuff back on the rooftop, and they just have the clothes and weapons that they took with them.

"Thank you," Finland says, "I think we will."

Iceland finds a spot on the ground that doesn't seem too uncomfortable, and curls up. He sets his weapons right beside him, close enough that his hand is on the handle of one of the pistols.

If he's honest with himself, Iceland is completely terrified of sleeping on the ground. He was afraid of being on it in the day, yes, but being on it in the night is a completely different story. Sure, there's a small pile of rubbish at the mouth of the alleyway, serving as a slight barricade, but that's not really going to do anything.

But Iceland doesn't want to be honest with himself, so he tries to be comforted by the fact that he's in the company of nations who are incredibly good at fighting.

He closes his eyes, and the last sight he sees before falling asleep is Germany prodding the embers in the fire with a stick, stirring the ashes.


	6. Chapter 6

Iceland opens his eyes. Italy's laying right beside him, smiling. His eyes are open, and at first, Iceland doesn't notice the blood seeping out of the slash on his neck. But he does.

He shoots up, grabbing the pistol and clicking off the safety. The sight that greets him is horrifying.

Italy's laying in a crooked position. The blood from the wound on his neck is forming a puddle around him, a dark vermillion puddle that smells coppery. Iceland screams and scrambles back, trying to get away from the horror that rests in front of his eyes.

He looks up. The sight that he's greeted with isn't much better. An entire gang is here, all fifteen or so members lining the alley. They've all got guns and a cruel smile on their faces.

Iceland's scream must've woken the rest of his family up, because they all shoot to their feet and aim their guns at the gang members. Iceland knows when Germany and Romano notice Italy's body because of Romano's anguished scream, filled with agony, and because of the fact that Germany is letting tears slip down his cheeks.

"YOU SONS OF BITCHES! I'M GOING TO MURDER YOU!" Romano shouts, and he starts firing his pistol with a vengeance.

He looks terrifying, and he hits three people with his messy and vicious shooting, but only kills one. The rest are able to dodge his bullets, which Iceland finds slightly shocking.

Two of the gang members finally just grab him and aim a gun to his head. He struggles violently within their grasp.

"Well well well," the gang leader says. "Looks like we found ourselves some entertainment."

Quick as lightning, he grabs the closest person to him, which happens to be Norway, and presses a knife against his throat, not hard enough to kill him but hard enough to make it so that everyone can clearly see the solitary bead of blood that drips down Norway's throat.

Denmark lets out an enraged gasp, and starts forward angrily, raising his gun.

"I wouldn't be doing that, if I were you," the leader says. "I would set your arms down and come with us quietly, otherwise blondie here gets the red smile."

He presses the knife a little harder, and Iceland sees Norway stiffen and bite back a cry. Iceland wants to murder the leader for what he's doing to his older brother.

"Like fucking hell," Denmark says, and before the leader can process his words he's shooting at him and the rest of the gang.

The leader frowns as he begins to realize that the gang isn't winning anymore. He scowls, and calmly ducks a series of bullets.

Standing up again, he says, "We're going to go now, but we'll be back. Oh yes, we're going to find you again. Now stop shooting at us, or I promise you that I'll cut his throat. I never go back on my promise."

He starts to walk backward, dragging Norway with him. The gang members who had Romano took him with them too, Romano fighting them all the way.

Norway gets one last look at the Nordics and Germany before they round the corner, and Iceland sees fear in his eyes for the first time in his life.


	7. Chapter 7

There's silence for a few moments. Germany's crying. Denmark's just standing there, looking as if a bomb went off.

 _Big brother,_ Iceland thinks, _I'm going to save you._

Suddenly, Denmark whirls around. "We have to go find him, oh god, we have to go find him right now," he says, spitting his words out furiously.

His face is anguished, and Iceland sees the tears streaming from his eyes. His voice has a pleading note to it, and Iceland realizes how destroyed he is that he let someone take Norway away from him.

"Italy…" Germany says, kneeling next to Italy. There's a crack in his voice.

He looks broken. He runs his hands through Italy's hair, brushing through it softly. Another tear drips down his face, and he bites his lip to refrain from crying anymore.

"They… they took Norway and Romano…" Iceland says, not completely believing the words. "They took my big brother."

"They messed with our family. Now they're going to die," Finland says. He looks furious.

"We'll follow them on the rooftops." Sweden points to the ladder at the side of the alley.

They climb it, and start to sprint after the gang. When they reach a street, they have to descend from the roofs, but when they reach the next block they're able to get back up there again.

The gang keeps on walking for a long while at a fast clip, and Iceland can barely see them when they finally stop and walk into an old parking garage.

The Nordics and Germany wait for a little while before going in, needing to make sure that the gang is properly distracted. Whatever that might mean, Iceland doesn't want to think about.

After about half an hour, Denmark can't stand it anymore, and nothing anyone can do keeps him back. So they creep carefully toward the parking garage, padding softly inside of it.

There are still many parked cars, which offer decent cover. Cover from which they can watch the things unfold from.

The gang is standing in the middle of the garage, circling around Norway and Romano, who are tied up back to back, their hands restrained.

Romano is furious.

"LET ME THE FUCK GO, BASTARDS," he yells, twisting his face around. "YOU LET ME THE FUCK GO RIGHT THIS SECOND."

The gang leader throws his head back and laughs.

"Do you really think that we're going to do that? No, we're going to have our fun." He's holding a knife, which he runs the tips of his fingers over and smiles. "How about we start with you?"

That shuts Romano up, and he leans back, closer to Norway.

Norway's not moving, and for a second Iceland is terrified that something already happened. But no, it appears that Norway was just unconscious. He starts to come to, lifting his head up and glancing around.

The gang leader kneels beside Romano, and without any hesitation slides the knife across Romano's chest, then back intersecting that slash, creating a bloody X.

It's not enough to kill Romano, who lets out a sob.

It's enough to make Norway stiffen and start to tremble, and though it's obvious that he tries to stop himself, Iceland can see him shaking from where he's hidden behind the car.

Romano's cries of pain echo throughout the parking garage as wound after wound is inflicted on him. Norway's shaking harder.

The leader tilts his head, admiring the gore in front of him. "You know, I think I like you better this way," he says. "Go to sleep."

With that, he plunges the knife into Romano's chest. Romano inhales in shock one last time, then slouches down against, dead.

Norway immediately goes completely still when he feels Romano's hands start to grow cold with death. He twists his head around to look at the leader as he kneels beside him.

"Now it's your turn, blondie," the leader says. "How about a nice––"

Iceland never gets to know what the leader is going to offer Norway, or rather force upon him, because Denmark leaps out from behind the car with an enraged sound of fury.

"TOUCH ONE MORE HAIR ON HIS FUCKING HEAD AND YOU GO TO HELL," Denmark says, even though it's obvious that he's going to keep shooting at them even if they don't touch a hair on Norway's head.

He gang leader smiles, waves, and slashes Norway's leg open from the calf to the thigh. Norway gasps in pain, and grits his teeth to keep from sobbing.

Denmark screams in anger, and his shooting is getting wilder and wilder. He starts to drive the gang back from Norway. Iceland jumps out from behind the car, and starts sprinting toward Norway, assault rifle in his hands and firing.

Iceland unties Norway while Denmark shoots. The rope is tied well and the knots hold firm, and Iceland has to use his knife to cut it off of him. He does, and slides the knife back into his boot.

"Help me carry him, Denmark!" Iceland says, and they immediately switch roles, Iceland firing and Denmark lifting Norway up in his arms, not caring that the blood from Norway's leg wound is spilling all over his jacket.

Finland and Sweden are firing their guns as well, and they both look like they're going to murder someone, which is exactly what they're doing. Finland's an expert shot, and he takes down gang member after gang member.

It's looking like things might turn out with them in the upper hand when all of a sudden a shit ton more people start to pour out of a door on the other side of the garage. They're obviously affiliated with the gang, and they begin to exchange crossfire the the Nordics and Germany.

Iceland sprints back to the cover of the car where Denmark is frantically trying to stop Norway's wound from bleeding with pieces of torn up cloth.

"We have to go right now!" Finland says, yelling to be heard over the gunfire.

They run for it, and wonder why no one gets shot. They're completely out in the open, unprotected, and sprinting for the exit.

When Iceland turns his head as he runs, he realizes why.

Germany's stayed behind to try to fend them off and give the Nordics a chance to escape. Iceland can see his shoulders shaking, and he realizes that he's sobbing.

"For Italy!" Germany yells. "This is for Italy, you sons-of-bitches!"

Iceland turns his head back around. He focuses on getting the hell out of there.


	8. Chapter 8

None of them stop running until they're back on their rooftop. Denmark lays Norway gently on the ground, and Finland immediately starts to wrap up his wound with some bandages.

"I really need water," Finland says, gritting his teeth. "The risk of infection is extremely high. But we don't have any that we can use."

Denmark is kneeling beside Norway, Norway's head in Denmark's lap. "Just, just do what you have to do, alright?" Denmark says, running a hand through Norway's pale blonde hair. "Just make sure that he's okay."

"The wound isn't too deep," Finland says. "He should be fine, just as long as he doesn't get infected."

Finland takes one of the painkillers out of his first-aid kit, and gives it to Norway along with some water.

Norway accepts it gratefully, drinks it, then lets his head fall back onto Denmark's lap. He's exhausted, and it's easily understandable why.

"I'm so sorry, Nor," Denmark says, and Iceland realizes that he's started to cry. "I'm so sorry that I let them take you away from me. I'm so, so sorry."

Norway opens his eyes slowly, and looks up at Denmark. "S'okay," he murmurs drowsily, the painkillers making him a bit sleepy. "You did your best."

Denmark cries harder at that, and hugs Norway close to him. "It'd kill me if anything happened to you, alright?" he says. "I'm going to protect you, no matter what. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you again." His words fall on unlistening ears; Norway has already fallen asleep. Denmark keeps him encircled in his arms, murmuring sweet things to him.

Iceland sits beside them, and places a hand on Norway's head. He softly strokes his older brother's hair, and bites his lip.

 _If anything happened to you, I'd die too_ , he thinks. _You have to stay with us, big brother._

Finland and Sweden sit down close to them, and they all huddle together. Sweden's arms encircle Finland and Denmark, leaving Iceland and Norway in the middle.

It's a nice feeling to be held and protected. It's an especially nice feeling after one watches one's friends get slaughtered gruesomely in front of them.

Iceland closes his eyes. He leans his head against Norway's chest so that he can feel his older brother's heartbeat, just to make sure it's still there.

It doesn't falter, and keeps pounding.

Iceland breaths a sigh of relief, and keeps his head pressed to Norway's chest.

 _How did they find us so easily_ , Iceland thinks. _Maybe it's because we were on the ground…_ He shudders. _I am never, ever going on the ground again. I can live up here, on this building…. No, that's impractical thinking. I'm going to have to go back down there again, and when I do, I need to be strong enough to be able to handle whatever comes at me._

He starts to falls asleep surrounded by his family. Physically, he's not alone, but in his mind? There, it's just him and his thoughts.

His disturbing, disgusting, and horrifying thoughts.

The thoughts that keep on replaying Italy's gory smile, Romano's bloody end, and Germany's final stand.

The thoughts that won't leave him alone.

The thoughts that tell him that he's going to die with his family.

The thoughts that tell him that the world is never going to get better.

The thoughts that tell him to give up.

Oh yes, he's alone with his thoughts.


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning comes with a pale grey dawn. Iceland blinks open his eyes. Denmark is awake, still staring down at Norway. There are dark circles under his eyes.

"Did you sleep at all?" Iceland asks groggily.

"No," Denmark says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I felt too guilty to sleep."

"You need rest, Denmark," Iceland says. "You can't protect us if you don't get sleep."

Denmark shrugs

Finland and Sweden are already up, and they're pacing around the roof of the building. Sweden turns when he notices that Iceland is up.

"Mornin', Ice," he says. "We're running low on food."

"How? I thought we had a lot left?" Iceland asks incredulously.

"It's gone," Finland says. "Someone must've taken it, but they didn't take anything else, which doesn't make sense. So maybe they didn't? I don't know…"

"But anyway, Fin and I were thinking of trying t' find that supermarket Germany was talking about. Maybe it still has some food left," Sweden says. "You and Denmark and Norway can stay here again, that way you can watch over him."

"No," Iceland says. _I need to learn how to conquer my fears, otherwise they'll cripple me._ "I'm coming with you guys."

Finland looks pained, but he ends up relenting. "We can keep you safe," he says, sounding more like he's assuring himself than he's assuring Iceland.

"I'm also coming with you," Norway says. The others look at him. He must've just woken up. He looks rather irked, and pushes the hair out of his face. "It doesn't hurt that much, and it wasn't too deep. I'll be fine."

"No, you're going to stay here with me where I can protect you," Denmark says.

"No, I'm going to go help our family look for food to keep us alive," Norway says. "And if you want to protect me, you'll have to come with me. Don't try to stop me."

If Norway makes his mind up about something, there's almost nothing that will change it. Iceland doubts that anything anyone of them says will sway Norway in any way.

"Fine," Finland says. "But if you need it, Denmark can carry you."

"I don't need that," Norway says. "I'm fine, really." He pushes himself up out of Denmark's lap, and staggers to a standing position. "See?"

He looks pained.

"Yeah… sure…" Finland says. He sounds unconvinced, but he knows that Norway's going to decide to come with them no matter what.

"No more splitting up, okay?" Norway says. "We're going to stick together, this family of ours. I'm not letting another one of you out of my sight again."

They all agree.

Setting off down the ladder, they retrace their steps from yesterday, carefully listening to see if they can hear any sounds. Norway has his guns back. Denmark had picked them up and carried them for him after he was taken yesterday.

They find the place where Italy lays, and try and avert their eyes from the sight of his body. Iceland sees that it's become a bit more mangled and bloody, and his heart feels for the cheerful Italian who used to smile and laugh and speak of unity and peace.

"There's food in Germany and Italy and Romano's packs, probably," Finland says.

He takes a deep breath, and scrambles over the pile of rubbish, and walks into the alley, making sure he doesn't look at Italy's corpse. Finland grabs the three bags, slinging two over his shoulders and carrying one. He sets them down in front of the rest of the Nordics, and they check out the contents of each.

Inside, they find plenty of food left.

There's more pasta, some soup, jerky, crackers, granola, trail mix, six water bottles, and three more bars of Hershey's chocolate.

"This'll do for now," Norway says. He goes to pick up one of the backpacks, but Denmark waves him off.

"Ya need to heal, Nor," Denmark says.

He carries one, and Finland and Sweden carry the other two. They start to walk back, heads facing downward and eyes staring at the cracked asphalt.

Suddenly, Finland stops. "You know what?" he says. "This is the worst. We need to take a break. We're going to have a picnic, and we're going to eat some food, and we're going to talk about our plan. We can't keep wandering around aimlessly trying not to die."

"Alright," Denmark says. "A few blocks past our camp there's a small park."

They walk there, luckily not running into anyone, man or zombie. When they reach the park, Iceland has to marvel at how overgrown it is.

The grass is up to his thigh, and trees and saplings are everywhere.

They pick their way through the grass to a picnic table, and set out an array of beef jerky, crackers, and trail mix.

"Here we go," Finland says.

The food is okay. It's certainly not as good as the pasta they had with Germany and Italy and Romano, but Iceland wasn't entirely sure there was anything that could beat that. Warm pasta and chocolate, surrounded by friends?

 _Friends that died._

Some small talk is made, and eventually everyone becomes more animated. They invest in pointless chatter to try to drown out the ache in their hearts.

"Remember that time we fought for three days straight?" Denmark asks Sweden.

"And I won?" Sweden responds, a tiny smile appearing on his usually serious lips.

"Pshaw," Denmark says. "Only because I let ya."

Norway rolls his eyes, and Finland laughs. "I'll bet you did, Denmark," Finland says, voice tinged with playful sarcasm.

"Remember when Iceland was little and we used to read him stories and fairytales, Nor?" Denmark asks. "That was nice. I miss those times."

"Yes," Norway says. "I remember. Ice loved it so much."

"Shut up," Iceland says.

Norway snorts, and shrugs. "Too bad I don't have a storybook with me right now."

Finland grins. "Well actually… There's something else that I found in Italy's backpack." He reaches in, and pulls out a small, colorfully illustrated book and hands it to Norway. "Read us something, Norway."

The book is by Dr. Seuss, and while it's certainly not as good as fairytales, Iceland finds himself enjoying it. Norway's voice is rhythmic, and the rhymes in the book are nice to hear. The simple comedy aimed at younger children is just the thing that everyone needs right now, and soon they're all grinning and chuckling, distracting themselves from the pain that they feel.

Everything's going great.

Until Finland hears a voice that shoots his head up and brings tears to his eyes.

"Sealand?" he calls, shooting up. "Sealand is that you?"

Norway stops reading, and they all tilt their head to listen. It's faint, very faint, but Iceland can tell that the voice does in fact belong to Sealand. Iceland can't tell what Sealand's yelling, but as they sprint closer to investigate, he realizes.

Help. Sealand is screaming for help.

Finland sprints the fastest that Iceland has ever seen anyone run, and skids around to the edge of the alley where Sealand's voice is coming from.

Sealand is surrounded by a horde of zombies. He's pinned up against a 10 foot wall, and there's no way out. The zombies draw closer, and just as Finland runs forward to knock them away from his son, they launch themselves on top of Sealand.

He has just enough time to be able to see his family, to be able to see Finland and Sweden rushing towards him, before he's overwhelmed and falls to the ground, dead.


	10. Chapter 10

Finland goes hysterical. He screams. He curses. He shouts. And before the zombies can charge at him, he charges at them.

He plunges into the fray, swinging his gun around and knocking their heads off. He kicks and twirls and punches and hits, shooting as well.

"YOU KILLED MY SON," he shouts. "YOU KILLED MY FUCKING SON AND NOW I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU UNDEAD BASTARDS!"

The rest of the Nordics start to shoot at the zombies as well, succeeding in blowing many of their heads off of their bodies.

But it's not enough.

Out of all of them, Finland might be the most determined fighter. He's incredible with his skills, kicking one zombie with a leather booted heel and shooting another one in its godforsaken face.

However, even Finland can't fight forever.

He falls, tripping over his own boot. He tilts his head up, as if preparing for the biting and ripping that he'll undergo…

Iceland can see Sweden propel himself forward, moving faster than humanly possible. He jumps in between the zombies and Finland, and Iceland can see him get bit instead of Finland.

Finland looks up, and the surprise in his eyes quickly changes to horror. "SWEDEN NO!" he yells, but it's too late.

Sweden's already been bitten.

Sweden gives Finland a tender look before crashing to the cement, landing with his right arm at an awkward angle.

Finland lets out an inhuman screech, and picks Sweden up, slinging one of Sweden's arms over his shoulders. He fights the horde as he escapes, Norway, Denmark, and Iceland shooting at them as well until there isn't a single zombie that doesn't have its head blown off.

That'll give them some time.

They run. Norway's limping on his bad leg, and Denmark has to carry Sweden. They sprint as fast as they can away, but when Sweden starts whimpering they have to stop.

Tears are trickling down his eyes. "Please make it stop," he says, a begging tone in his voice. "Please stop."

Iceland has never seen Sweden cry out of pain before.

Finland presses his head up against Sweden's. "Sve… Why?" he asks, sniffing.

"I love you, Fin," Sweden says. "Y'need t' go on and survive for me, okay? I know you can make it."

"Oh, Sweden…" Finland whispers. "I love you too much to watch you die."

"There are stars even in the darkest of nights," Sweden responds.

"I don't want stars, all I want is you," Finland says, and drops his head to Sweden's chest, breathing slowly in an attempt to control his crying.

Denmark is crying openly, weeping. He may've fought with Sweden a lot in the past, but in his heart Sweden was always part of his family, someone that he needed to protect. And he failed.

Norway is sniffling. Iceland knows that he's always had mixed feelings around Sweden, especially after he was forced into a union with him. But that was a long, long time ago, and they'd been a complete family for such a while that nothing would ever seem the same again.

Iceland can feel tears streaming down his cheeks, and he does nothing to stop them. He loves Sweden. Sweden was like a brother to him, always there when Iceland needed some space from his actual brother or his rambunctious partner. He always listened to Iceland, and understood what Iceland needed. He was there, and now he isn't going to be.

Finland hugs Sweden, wrapping his arms around the larger man's body, and starts to wail. Sweden's biting his lips to keep from making more sounds of pain, and he gives Finland one last gifts before he passes out.

A smile.


	11. Chapter 11

Two days have passed since Sweden died.

The phrase still seems unrealistic to Iceland. How could Sweden, the strong one, the stoic one, the protector of the Nordics die?

In his entire life, Iceland has only seen two people that are really, truly broken. Two people that lost what they cared most about.

Germany and Finland.

And Iceland didn't have much time to observe Germany after Italy died. He just got the chance to watch him hold off the rest of the gang and save their lives.

Iceland has more than enough time to observe Finland now that both Sweden and Sealand are dead. His shoulders are stooped, and he walks like he's a kicked puppy. He's gaunter than Iceland has ever seen him, and there are black circles under his eyes. Finland doesn't sleep. He sits and stares off into the night, not really looking at anything.

But the worst is when he talks or smiles. His voice is dull, and completely emotionless. It's a rasping whisper of the liveliness that it used to contain, and every word is long and drawn out, like Finland isn't exactly sure of what he's saying when he's saying it.

He's become a robot. Being beside them but not actually _being_ there. He'll smile when Denmark says something funny in an effort to try and lighten the stormy and melancholic mood, but the smile is closer to a grimace. His eyes are empty.

Currently, he's sitting on the edge of the building, legs dangling off it, and staring far off into the distance. Iceland walks up to him.

"Finland," he says. Finland doesn't acknowledge him, but Iceland knows that he heard. "We're going to leave this city."

Finland nods mechanically. He gets up, and turns around to face Iceland. "Good."

"We're all ready to go," Denmark says. "Let's get the hell out of here."

They climb down the ladder, landing on the ground with a slight _thump_. The walk to the edge of the city passes slowly, as no one talks. Finland stares straight on ahead, hand on his gun, and Iceland is fully aware that if he hears any noise apart from the sound of his family he will turn and shoot it.

Norway walks with a limp. Since Finland has turned… well, turned mechanical, he hasn't been the best of medics. Norway's wound got infected, but he refuses to admit that it hurts him.

Finally, they reach a place where the houses start to narrow out, and Iceland starts to see more overgrown grassy areas and trees.

There's something else, though. A lone figure, standing at the exit to the city. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, and Iceland stops walking before he can see the sadistic smile that he's sure rests on the man's face.

It's the leader of the gang.

Behind him, there's a line of about thirty people, each one of them with a gun. They block the road, and Iceland realizes that they're not going to be able to pass this way. One of the figures looks familiar, and Iceland squints. He lets out a small gasp of shock when he realizes who it is.

Prussia.

"You're not going anywhere, I hope?" the leader says. "I never got to pay you back for all those deaths that you caused."

"That _we_ caused?" Denmark spat. "You fuckers killed our friends."

"And you killed ours." The leader shrugs, then walks back toward the rest of his gang. He stops beside Prussia, and turns around. "This man says that he knows you. Is that true?"

Denmark gasps. "Prussia?!" he asks incredulously. "What the hell are you doing there?"

"They have Germany," Prussia says. "They have my little brother."

He sounds like he's trying to avoid bursting out into tears. His voice has a hitch in it, and it sounds so pitiful that Iceland starts to feel sorry for him.

"Germany's alive?" Denmark asks, shocked. "I thought they killed him."

"Oh yes, we kept your other blonde friend alive," the leader says, but Iceland can tell that something's off with the way that he says it.

 _He's lying_.

It's faint, very faint, and Iceland wouldn't have recognized it if he himself weren't an expert at lying. The telltale whispering note to the leader's speech, and the way that his face is an impeccable mask. His body posture is rigid, well rehearsed.

Iceland looks around. No one else can tell it, and Norway and Denmark look extremely shocked. Finland's expression hasn't changed, still the same blank stare.

"While we kept him alive, I'm afraid that we can't do the same for you." The gang leader walks forward again, tilting his head slightly. "What happened to the big blonde fellow? He die or something? Kind of looked like an idiot."

Finland snaps his head around, whirling to look at him. He stamps forward, eyes narrow and full of the first emotion that Iceland has seen in him for days. Fury.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he demands.

The leader laughs. "Touch a nerve?"

Faster than Iceland can see, a quick blur of movement, and Finland has his rifle up, aimed at the leader's face.

"I'm going to shoot you now," he says, and pulls the trigger.

A splatter of crimson paints the air, and the leader's body topples over, hitting the ground with a dull _thud_.

"He just shot th' boss," one of the members yelled. "Let's kill 'im!"

The gang surges forward, Prussia included.

"Finland!" Denmark yells. "We have to get out of here!"

Finland nods, and he turns around and starts sprinting. They all start running, moving as fast as they possibly can. The bullets make whizzing sounds beside Iceland's ears, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from crying out in fear.

He looks behind them at Norway, who's fallen back a bit. The limp is slowing his running.

"Hurry, Norway!" he calls, and propels himself forward faster.

Eventually, they reach a place where the sounds of the gang following them are muted. Denmark turns into an alley, and they follow him, catching their breath.

"We've gotta go somewhere safe," Denmark pants. "Let's go into the sewers."

"That's where the zombies are, idiot," Norway says. His voice is ragged from heavy breathing. "I'd rather be with the gang than with the undead."

"The zombies are up here, too," Finland says. "We go into the sewers, at least for right now."

No one wants to argue with Finland after everything that he went through, so they quietly comply. Denmark wrenches the manhole cover up with the butt end of his rifle, and they crawl in after him. He shuts it, and they're alone in the complete darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

Somewhere in the sewers there's a sound of water dripping. Iceland will have to be careful not to touch it.

Denmark paws through his bag, and pulls out a headlamp. "This has fresh batteries," he says. "It should last us for a while."

They walk in silence, not wanting to call any unwanted attention to themselves. Zombies can hear, after all. So Iceland thinks a lot.

Ever since Sweden died, since he smiled that one last smile at Finland before closing his eyes for good, Iceland has realized exactly how mortal they really are.

He knows that in the past they wouldn't have been able to die. They were countries, for Pete's sake! But the rules had changed ever since the attack.

There was no more country to run. Borders were blurring. And the nations had become mortal.

All around them, in the almost tangible darkness that presses against the narrow beam of Denmark's headlamp, Iceland can hear raspy sounds.

It scares him.

Obviously there are zombies down here, in the opacity, but down in the sewers, Iceland can't see them coming. He can only rely on his hearing.

That scares him as well.

"Shall we eat something?" Denmark says, murmuring. Even so, his voice is loud, way too loud. It echoes off of the walls of the sewer.

"Sure," Iceland says.

They sit, unwrapping packets of crackers and nibbling on them. No one really has any appetite, though they force themselves to scarf down the food anyway.

"I guess we should keep moving," Denmark says. "But I'm not really sure where we're going."

"Anywhere where we're safe from both the undead and the living," Norway responds. "Which isn't any place that I know of. So I suppose that we're just going to wander."

They do just that for a while, wandering around in the darkness.

At one point, Iceland is positive that he hears Prussia's voice coming from near the manhole cover above him. He can't make out what the ex-nation is saying, but the general tone is pleading and afraid.

Iceland moves quickly beneath that. He doesn't want to think about what might be happening.

In the darkness, there are things that Iceland has never noticed before. Things that he doesn't want to hear. Whispers and murmurs seem to be echoing all around the tunnels, and Iceland is constantly getting a shiver up his spine.

He gets the feeling that he's being watched, and he whirls around. There's no one there, only inky opacity that seems to stretch on and on for miles.

Iceland's breath starts to come faster, and he finds himself walking closer to Denmark for protection. Denmark doesn't complain, instead, he clasps Iceland's hand with his own.

"It's gonna be alright, okay?" he whispers. "You're going to be fine."

 _But what about you_? Iceland wonders. He doesn't say voice thoughts out loud though, and the day passes on in silence.

Iceland stops short when he hears a soft _thud_ behind him, and he whirls around with his hand on the trigger of his pistol.

Norway's tripped, though he soon pulls himself up to a standing position. Iceland notices that Norway's being extremely ginger with his bad leg, walking softly and putting as little weight as possible on it.

"Are ya okay, Nor?" Denmark asks, worry tinging his voice.

"I'm fine. It just hurts," Norway says, gritting his teeth. "I don't want to talk about it."

Iceland is almost one hundred percent sure that Norway's wound is infected, but he knows that Norway won't let anyone look at it now that Finland's gone mechanical.

Iceland can tell that night is falling when the hoarse scraping sounds around them start to become louder and more frequent. They all move closer together, forming a little pack. Iceland grips his pistol tighter. The assault rifle is a bit impractical to use down here, being far too big, but the pistol is sized just right.

"We should stop walking," Norway murmurs. "We're making too much noise."

Denmark agrees reluctantly. He'd rather keep moving, but he sees Norway's point. They sit down, pressed up against the wall of the sewer, in a huddle.

"Try and get some sleep," Denmark says, ruffling Iceland's silver hair. "We'll get the hell out of the sewers in the morning."

Iceland nods, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Sleep doesn't come easily, and he doesn't move his hand from the trigger of his pistol all night.


	13. Chapter 13

"Iceland," Finland says. "Wake up."

Iceland blinks his eyes open. He wasn't completely asleep; somewhere between the alertness of wakefulness and the blurriness of sleep.

"What time is it?" he asks, yawning a little.

"Eight in the morning," Denmark. responds.

"We're going to go back to the streets. It's far too dangerous down here, and we've been lucky that nothing's attacked us already," Norway says.

Iceland nods, and he takes some water out of his backpack and drinks a few sips. He's thirstier than he realized, and the water tastes good. Placing it back in the bag, he stands up, and stretches.

"Let's go," Denmark says.

They don't have to walk far before they find a suitable manhole, and Denmark pries it open with the end of his rifle again.

Sunlight comes streaming in, a welcome sight to ward off the darkness. They climb up the ladder beneath it, and Denmark puts the cover back on once they've all reached the top.

"Where to from here?" Iceland asks.

"We need to get out of the city." Finland's voice has become short and clipped, not like the sloppy and emotionless drawl that he had been speaking with in the previous days.

Denmark nods. Since none of them know where they really are, they just pick a direction and go with it. It's nice to be back in the sunlight. The darkness was starting to get to them all, and Iceland is more afraid of the undead than he is of the gang.

They are all apprehensive, but no one truly expects the sight that they see when they round a corner.

It's Prussia.

Or rather, it's what's left of Prussia hanging from a building.

Prussia's corpse is the epitome of gore. Blood is still seeping out of the slashes on his arms and face and the macabre, slashed-up mess that has used to be his chest. His arms and legs are all broken, from the look of them; they jut out at irregular angles and one can see the bone showing.

Iceland has to look away.

"So that's what that sound was yesterday," Finland says. He doesn't sound particularly sad, which Iceland finds surprisingly out of character for him.

"He never got the chance to save Germany," Norway says, his voice softer than Finland's.

Iceland looks at him. "Germany was dead when we left him. The gang leader was lying. I could tell it in his body language and the way he delivered what he had to say."

"How?" Norway asks.

"I'm a good liar myself," Iceland says. "Unlike him."

"Should we do something about Prussia's body? It feels kinda wrong to just leave him hanging here," Denmark says.

"No," Finland says. "There's nothing that we can do at this point. He's dead, and he doesn't care. So let's not waste our time."

Iceland looks at the remains again. He can't believe that this bloodstained corpse, silent with death, used to be Prussia, the loud and rambunctious ex-nation who would always cause trouble. The ex-nation who would constantly brag about how great he was. The ex-nation who would be there to listen when someone really needed him because he knew what it felt like to be hurt and ignored.

A sound startles Iceland out of his reverie.

A sound that haunts his nightmares.

A sound that sends shivers crawling down his spine.

A sound that makes him want to run and hide and try not to cry.

The sound of pounding feet and raspy voices.

The sound of the horde.

"Shit!" Denmark yells. "Let's go!"

He starts running in the the other direction, Norway, Iceland and Finland following him. This part of the city is starting to look familiar, and Iceland realizes that this is where they were the first time the horde found them, back when Sweden and Denmark were arguing. Back when Sweden was alive.

Norway's limping badly, but his face is set in a look of grim determination and he runs through the pain.

Denmark ducks into the alley that they used to escape last time, and picks Iceland up so that the Icelander can scramble up on top of the wall. Denmark does the same for Norway.

"Finland! Get the hell over here!" Denmark yells at Finland, who's standing a little way down the alley with his assault rifle fully loaded.

The horde runs into the alley.

There's something remarkably different about the situation that Iceland is in now and the situation that he was in with Denmark and Sweden. And it's not the fact that Finland and Norway are there too.

It's the fact that instead of trying to escape the zombies, Sweden has become one.

And he's running at the forefront of the pack.

Finland turns his head slightly to look at Denmark, and says, "Go on ahead without me. I'm going to join the man who I love."

"No!" Iceland yells. "Finland, no!"

There's a smile on Finland's face. Not one of the hollow, empty ones, but a real, legitimate smile. It's soft and warm, and it reminds Iceland of the old times. The times where they were all together as a family. The times before the apocalypse.

Finland turns back to face the horde, and he drops his gun.

"Denmark!" Norway says. "Get onto the wall!"

A combined effort of Norway pulling him and Denmark scrabbling against the wall with his feet gets Denmark to safety.

They get a prime view of Finland's death.

It seems to happen in slow motion. Finland's arms are open, and he leans forward as if to embrace the mess that Sweden has become. Sweden, when he's near enough, jumps forward and lands on Finland, knocking him to the ground.

He bites him over and over again, and before Finland is completely overwhelmed by the horde, Iceland never sees the smile on his falter. Finland tilts his head back toward the end of the alley, where the rest of his family is standing on the wall. He mouths the words _I love you_ , and a zombie blocks out their view of him as it adds to the shivering pile of zombies already atop him.

Happy. Finland was happy at the end of his life, the end of his long life. Sure, he'd gone through many, many hardships, but he'd always come out the other side.

Not so now.

He's gone.


	14. Chapter 14

Norway, Iceland, and Denmark have walked back to their camp. They've climbed the ladder, which was excessively hard for Norway due to his wounded and infected leg, and Denmark ended up having to carry them. They're sitting underneath an awning on the roof.

It's raining for the first time in months, but this rain is extremely dangerous. One drop of natural water is as bad as a zombie bite, after all. Plus, the rain is a shockingly green color.

The awning offers them a bit of protection, enough to keep themselves and their things dry.

Denmark has his arms wrapped around both Norway and Iceland, and Norway is hugging Iceland tightly. Iceland feels safe, and warm, but nothing is heating up that empty space inside his chest.

He feels as if his heart is divided into four main pieces. There's one for Norway, there's one for Denmark, there's one for Finland, and there's one for Sweden.

The ones for Finland and Sweden are empty now. They're broken and shattered, and nothing that Iceland can do will bring them back.

He knows that he's not truly broken yet, but it's only a matter of time.

 _If something happens to Norway or Denmark I'm going to die_ , Iceland thinks.

He cared about Finland and Sweden greatly, but even he can't deny that Norway and Denmark are the closest members of his family to him.

Iceland doesn't want to think about the future, so he brings his thoughts back to the present, back to where he's surrounded by a cocoon of love and warmth and sadness. Bittersweet.

He's starting to feel drowsy, and he rests his head up against Norway's chest like he used to do when he was a young nation. He sighs, and tries to block out the sorrow that he feels with thoughts about how there's still hope, that maybe Norway and Denmark and him can find someplace where it's safe and create graves for Finland and Sweden so that they can honor their memory.

Iceland closes his eyes. Right before he can fall asleep, Norway whispers, "Don't worry, Ice, you're going to survive this."

 _But what about you_? Iceland thinks, and drifts off into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

Morning seems to come especially early, and Iceland blinks open his eyes blearily. Norway's still asleep, his head resting on Denmark's shoulder. He looks so peaceful, and his expressions have softened with sleep.

Denmark's awake. He offers Iceland a smile, though he can see the pain behind his eyes.

"We're going to get out of this godforsaken city," Denmark whispers. "Just you watch us."

Iceland nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure that he could believe the words anymore. He kept getting his hopes up that they would survive, that they would be able to be okay, and his hopes kept on getting stomped on. It _hurt._

It had stopped raining, and the puddles had all dried up. The sun, which had only been up for around an hour or so, had done its work, helped by the fact that the atmosphere was getting thinner due to the disease.

"Nor," Denmark said softly. "It's time to wake up, Nor. We're going to make it out of here."

Norway opened his eyes, and nodded. "I wasn't really sleeping," he said, his voice tired. "I couldn't fall asleep."

Iceland can tell that he's about to add on how much his leg and heart are both paining him, but Norway changes his mind at the last second and stays quiet.

"Well, shall we go?" Norway asks.

The eat a quick breakfast, and stand up. They walk toward the edge of the roof, Norway's limp incredibly pronounced.

"Can I carry you?" Denmark asks, laying a concerned hand on Norway's shoulders. Normally, Norway would've shaken it off. But the end of the world causes some drastic changes, and Norway lets it rest there.

"No," Norway says. "I'm just fine."

He's obviously not just fine.

Denmark goes down the ladder first, followed by Norway, and Iceland. When Iceland's most of the way down, Norway slips and falls. Denmark catches him.

"Nor…" Denmark says hesitantly, like he expects Norway to push him away again.

It shocks both Iceland and Denmark when Norway sighs, and turns to bury his head against Denmark. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he seems incredibly small.

"It hurts," Norway pants. "A lot."

The rest of their medical supplies were with Finland. And Finland was gone. Iceland hated not being able to do anything to help his older brother, who was on the verge of tears.

"I'm gonna have to carry ya then," Denmark says.

They start walking. All around them, Iceland can hear various sounds. He's not sure whether he likes the city dead silent or the way that it is now. The silence would be eerie, but the noise is frightening.

At one point, they hear voices down a street to their right. They speed-walk past that street, eyes glued on the road.

A small yip startles Iceland. The yipping comes closer and closer, and a tiny white dog bursts into view from around a corner. It's running toward them. Iceland would know that dog anywhere. Hanatamago.

The dog skids into Iceland, and he kneels to pick her up.

 _How the hell is Hanatamago still alive?_ Iceland wonders.

"We can't take him with us," Norway says from his position in Denmark's arms.

Iceland turns to look at him, and shakes his head. "No. I'm going to. For Finland and Sweden."

He doesn't set Hanatamago down, and Norway lets the matter rest as they continue walking forward.

 _For Finland. For Sweden. I'll keep you safe, Hanatamago. You're all that I have left to remind me of them._


	15. Chapter 15

They've walked for a very, very long time now, and something is telling Iceland that they're only getting deeper and deeper into the city.

The plant life is way overgrown, and Iceland finds himself wondering again how it's survived the rain and found enough water to shoot up. Maybe the shockingly bright green that every leaf and every blade of grass has become is enough to show that plants can thrive off of the rain, unlike humans, but Iceland isn't sure.

His backpack is beginning to feel like it weighs a ton, and he's starting to stumble over his own feet. He's extremely impressed that Denmark has been carrying Norway for all this time.

"I'm so tired," Iceland pants. "Can we take a break?"

"Sure. Let's have some food. We don't have that much left," Denmark responds.

They sit down, leaning against a wall. Iceland pulls some food out of his backpack, then picks up Hanatamago. She was sleeping in the larger compartment, and Iceland had the zipper open a little ways so that she could breath.

Hanatamago is a smart dog. She knows that their family has come apart, and it seems to Iceland that she also knows why. Her tail doesn't wag as much as it used to, and she seems a bit more timid. He still isn't sure how on earth she's survived this long.

Iceland feeds her some beef jerky, and eats the rest of the bag's contents himself. Once done with that, he checks how much food and water he has left. Three packets of crackers, another half-bag of beef jerky, and a small pouch of trail mix. Plus three small water bottles. If he rations it, that's enough to last him for three days.

"Shall we start walking again?" Iceland asks.

Norway nods, and Iceland puts the food back into his backpack, placing Hanatamago on top of it and leaving the zipper open a little ways.

They start walking again, and the time seems to pass slower and slower. Iceland knows that he should be grateful for the respite from action, and he is, but he can't help the feelings of boredom. They leave him alone with his thoughts, company that he doesn't want to have.

It feels like they've walked miles and miles. Miles of walking on cracked cement, miles of seeing no one but themselves. Miles of Iceland's head telling him things that he doesn't want to hear.

Left to themselves, his thoughts are constantly replaying both Sweden and Finland's deaths. How Sweden sacrificed himself to save the one that he loved. How he smiled for the first time in months at Finland right before he died. How he was the one that took Finland's life in the end.

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ Iceland thinks. _This hurts too much, oh my god does this hurt too much._

None of them knows where they are, and darkness is starting to fall.

"Let's take to the rooftops," Denmark says. "That's probably our safest bet."

They all agree, and start looking for a way to climb up. There are ladders all around, but in the darkening twilight it's getting harder and harder to see.

"There," Iceland says, pointing to a ladder in the darkness of an alley on the side of a dark grey building.

Just as he points to it, another voice calls out, "There they are!" and the gang that's become one of their worst enemies jumps out into view.

"How the fuck did they find us?!" Denmark wonders aloud. "Get on top of the building, Ice! Nor and I are right behind ya!"

They sprint toward the alley as the gang starts firing at them. Iceland starts climbing the ladder without hesitation. There's one point where he can feel a bullet whizzing by his ear, and he grits his teeth and climbs faster.

This building's quite tall, maybe around six stories. That's a long way to climb.

Iceland stops for a moment, and looks down. The gang is directly beneath them. Iceland isn't sure how on earth Denmark is carrying Norway, but somehow, he is.

The bad thing is that they've only made it about fifteen feet in the time that it took Iceland to climb halfway up the building.

 _They're not going to make it_ , Iceland thinks in horror. _Oh god no…_

Iceland can tell that Norway has the same thought. He's looking anxiously at the ground beneath them, and Iceland can see his lips moving as if saying, _Faster, go faster, we need to go faster_.

Denmark grits his teeth, and tightens his hold on Norway. He's desperately trying to climb faster, and Iceland can tell that he knows that he's not going to make it.

He looks up at Iceland. "Go!" he shouts desperately. "Go, Iceland!"

Iceland doesn't move.

 _I can't live without my family,_ he thinks.

The twilight is dark, but it's light enough that Iceland can see the look of soft determination on Norway's face and he presses a kiss to Denmark's lips and says,

"Keep your head up and don't stop going, Denmark. Take care of Iceland. Make it to safety. Survive, for me. You can do it, and I know you can. Don't avenge me. Go." Norway pauses, and adds a soft, "I love you."

Before Denmark can completely process his words, Norway twists himself loose from Denmark's grip. He makes eye contact with Iceland as he falls to the ground, fifteen feet below him, and lands on his back.

It's not enough to kill Norway.

But the boot that stomps on his throat with a sickening _crunch_ is.


	16. Chapter 16

Blood spreads out around Norway's neck in some sort of gruesome halo. Iceland is rooted to the ladder in horror. Everything is numb, and it feels like he's looking at the world through a sheet of dirty glass, or perhaps watching the events play out on a television screen.

Because there is no way that Norway, his older brother, is dead.

Iceland stays there, glued to the ladder.

Denmark, however, lets out an impossibly loud and feral scream that's filled with agony. He leaps off of the ladder, and in the time that it takes him to land on the ground he's already brought the M16 to his hands and begun firing.

He's yelling as he massacres the gang members. They don't stand a chance. Iceland has never seen Denmark so angry.

There's practically a red aura coming off of his skin as he shoots and swings and kicks. By the time he's finished, there's a circle of bodies lying all around him. He's killed them all. There isn't a single man left standing.

That's when Denmark breaks down. He crashes to the ground beside Norway, and grabs his hand. His shoulders are heaving with sobs, and he yells again.

Iceland climbs down the ladder. He reaches Norway's body and Denmark, and sits beside them. He's numb, he's completely numb, oh god let him be numb.

Because this is the true feeling of pain. This is what it means to be broken, isn't it?

He places his hand on top of Norway's forehead, brushing the pale blonde hair off of it. Norway's face is peaceful, and he looks like he's sleeping. Peaceful. Unaware of the grief and agony that's permeating the air. Unaware of the coppery scent of blood that's slowly slipping into Iceland's nostrils. Unaware that Iceland's heart is a fraction away from being shattered, broken completely.

Denmark screams.

Iceland sobs.

Norway's silent.

They stay like that for a few hours, until Denmark suddenly turns and envelops Iceland in a tight hug. He whispers fiercely in Iceland's ear, "Don't worry Ice, don't worry, You're going to make it out of this okay, okay? You're going to be okay."

Iceland hugs Denmark back, crying softly into his chest. He looks up.

"Norway…" he says, and swallows. "Norway's gone."

Iceland says it like he can't believe it. He says it like he wants Denmark to assure him that no, it's a dream, he'll wake up in a few minutes. He wants Denmark to assure him that all of this has been a dream, that Sweden isn't dead. That Finland isn't dead. That Norway isn't dead.

But Denmark doesn't. Instead, he nods and doesn't say anything.

That's how they pass the night, Denmark hugging Iceland and Iceland hugging Denmark while Norway's blood seeps out onto the cold, cracked cement.

They must've fallen asleep at some point, because they both startle a little when a soft voice speaks.

Denmark shoots up and pushes the newcomer to the ground so fast that Iceland can hardly see anything other than a blur.

"Hey!" the newcomer says in a softly panicked voice. "Denmark, it's me!"

"Canada?" Denmark asks gruffly, his voice still hoarse from crying. "How did you find us?"

He helps Canada up, who promptly runs a hand through his shaggy sandy blonde hair.

"I heard you last night… Denmark, Iceland, I'm really sorry…" Canada says, pausing for a moment. "But I thought that I should tell you about something. Apparently there's a place in Key West, Florida, where we can be safe. They've set up barricades against the zombies and keep a sharp watch on the gangs."

"Florida?" Iceland says, his voice scratchy. "Florida's too far away… We'll never make it."

Canada shakes his head. "Not on foot, you won't," he says softly. "But I've got a truck. Please, come with me."

Iceland nods. It's the most sensible course of action, and right now he feels to painfully numb to not comply with whatever is being said. Plus, he trusts Canada.

Denmark looks down at Norway's body, and Iceland can see his shoulders begin to tremble. He kneels beside his dead lover, and places a hand on his head, ruffling his blonde hair one last time.

"I don't want to just leave him here," he whispers sorrowfully. "I can't do that."

"That's not Norway anymore," Canada says. "That's just his body. I'll bet you that his soul is watching over you two right now."

Iceland nods numbly, and follows Canada out of the alley. They wait patiently for Denmark, who takes a little time to wrap Norway's body in a last, final hug.

He then stands up, and walks toward them. Denmark's doing everything that he can to get his normal expression back on his face, but Iceland can see the pain reflecting in his cerulean blue eyes. Here's someone else who's really, truly broken.

There's a big red pickup truck parked at the entrance to the alley, it's bed loaded with tubs of gasoline. Canada climbs in the driver's seat through the window, which is rolled all the way down. Denmark sits up front in shotgun, and Iceland gets the backseat to himself and Hanatamago, who he places on his lap. The white dog licks his chin, and scrabbles at his chest until he picks her up and hugs her close to his chest.

Canada turns the keys in the ignition, and the truck rumbles to life. Iceland hasn't felt anything like this for months, and it reminds him of happier times.

 _If there's safety in Florida,_ Iceland thinks _, I can make a memorial for Norway and Sweden and Finland. I can honor their memories… All that's left is to survive long enough to get there._


	17. Chapter 17

The hours pass by, neither quickly nor slowly. They're just there. Just spaces in time that Iceland has to live through.

Every once in awhile, Canada has to stop the car and refill the tank with one of the containers full of gasoline that he has stacked in the back of the truck.

Denmark has taken to riding in the back of the truck, where he can blow the heads off of zombies as they get too close to the truck. Iceland thinks that he takes comfort in shooting off his gun and 'killing' things. Of course, they'll be just fine in a few minutes. But the truck with Canada, Denmark, and Iceland will be gone by then.

Iceland's numbness is still there, but now the pain is seeping through it. It's a horrible creature, the pain. It doesn't let him rest. It doesn't leave him alone. It follows him, and it haunts him. It hurts every part of his body, and he just wants to lie down and go to sleep and never wake up.

He sits up in the front, Hanatamago on his lap, beside Canada. Periodically, tears will start trickling down his face. He's past the point of caring that he's crying in front of another person.

Canada glances sympathetically at him. "I'm sorry again about Norway," he says. "I'm sure that he died bravely."

"He did," Iceland says, his voice wavering. "I just wish that he wasn't dead."

"I know what it's like to lose a sibling…" Canada says, his voice turning into a sad murmur. "It was impossible for me, after America died…"

 _Oh, right._

"I'm sorry," Iceland says. He really means it, but the words end up sounding hollow.

Canada nods, pretending to ignore how empty Iceland's words of apology are. "It's okay," he says. "He died fighting for something that he believed in. He died believing he made a difference."

 _He didn't. There's still too many zombies to count._

Iceland would never say those thoughts out loud, however, and just turns and looks out of the window. The scenery passes in a blur.

Periodic shots come out of the back of the truck.

Iceland isn't worried for Denmark's safety currently, he doesn't think that anything could stop Denmark right now due to the fury of his anger.

It goes on like that for a while, everything dull and quiet. Iceland's heart is slowly breaking into little, tiny fragments and shards, too small to piece back together again.

Suddenly, the sound of another car grabs their attention. It's coming from in front of them. Iceland expects Canada to pull their truck over and get a gun out, but the Canadian does no such thing, in fact, he floors it. He stomps his foot on the gas petal, and they take off.

As the car comes into view, Iceland takes out his pistol. Even though it's small, he wants to feel at least a little bit armed.

Hanatamago barks.

The car passes quickly, too quickly for any of them to see who's inside it. The fact that the windows are tinted doesn't help either, and soon the roaring of the car is long in the distance.

After that, they don't run into any more living people. Only the undead, who Canada seems to enjoy hitting with his car. It seems like he's taking revenge for America's death, which makes sense to Iceland. He wants to get revenge for Norway's death himself, but Denmark already has.

They pass through many different cities, each one different from the last. The windows are broken in most of them. There are stains, more of those horrible, horrible stains, like the one formed by the puddle of blood around Norway's head.

Iceland clenches his fists.

He fights to stay in control of his breathing. He needs to be brave, for Norway. He needs to get to Key West and build the graves and memorial and have time to grieve and not fear for his life.

Iceland doesn't think that he's ever been to Florida. He doesn't know the geography at all, as he's never really bothered to learn it. He never thought that he'd have to.

 _The end of the world really changes your perspective on some things._

Though he thought he couldn't sleep through the pain, Iceland finds himself dozing off a few times, his head leaning against the back of the seat.

Canada had said at some point that it was a fifteen hour drive from Washington DC to Miami, then another three hours or so to Key West.

Iceland isn't sure that they have enough gas to make it all the way there. He supposes that they can walk, but it'll be so much more dangerous that way. But Iceland's almost too broken to care. Maybe if he dies, then he can see Norway again.

His chest aches at that thought. He wants to feel Norway's heartbeat. He wants to hug his older brother. He wants to tell him how much that he loved him. How he took it for granted that Norway would always be there beside him. _Until the end of the world_ , Norway had promised once. _I'll be there with you until the end of the world._

How right he was.

Here was the apocalypse, big and bad and scary. The end of the world as they knew it. And Norway was gone, he was _gone_. Finland was gone, he was _gone._ Sweden was gone, he was _gone._ Iceland's family was coming apart at the seams, and there was nothing that he could do apart from keep on holding on and hoping.

Eventually, when it was starting to get pitch black, they got to a huge city. It was eerie how quiet it was. Canada's truck made quite a bit of noise, a fact that Iceland was uncomfortably aware of.

"This is Miami," Canada says. "America used to love it here…" His voice cracks. "Back when, y'know, back when he was alive, sometimes he'd call me up and tell me to come down here. To take a break from the cold. To have some fun on the sandy beaches."

Canada looks like he's going to cry, but he straightens his back and lets out a long sigh. He turns to look at Iceland, and offers him a slightly smile.

"I miss them so much," Iceland says. "Is that why my chest feels so empty?"

"I feel that too," Canada says. "It's painful numb, like the feeling you get when you stick your hand in snow right before your hand goes numb. That painful, stabbing, tingly numb."

"It hurts."

"It does."

Not too far into the city, the car sputters. Canada gets out of the car and walks to the back.

"Shit," Canada says. "We're out of gas."

Iceland opens his car door, and places Hanatamago back in his backpack. She's fairly safe there, and he doesn't really mind carrying her.

Plus, she's really all that he has left to remind him of Finland and Sweden. And Sealand. He does miss that kid too, even though he could be annoying sometimes. He certainly didn't deserve to die in the way that he did. No one deserves to die that way.

"We'll have to wake from here, then," Denmark says, and hops out of the truck. "Iceland. Do you have any extra ammo for an M16?"

Iceland nods, and digs around in the small compartment of his backpack. He hands it to Denmark, who nods his thanks.

"It's best not to walk at night. We can sleep in the truck. It might be conspicuous, but at least I can lock it," Canada says.

Iceland climbs into the back seat, and curls up. He opens his backpack, and picks up Hanatamago. He places her close to his chest, wrapping his arms around her.

 _It's okay, it's okay, we're going to make it_ , he thinks, trying to convince himself. _We can do it. I know we can._


	18. Chapter 18

Iceland's feet ache from walking, and the heat is becoming unbearable, though he hasn't left his army jacket behind yet. It may yet come in handy. He turns to look at Canada, who looks just as tired as him.

"How far?" he wheezes, trying to catch his breath.

"We're only on Key Largo, so we've still got a while left to go…" Canada responds.

Iceland is highly impressed that Canada has this good a knowledge of US geography, though he realizes that he probably knows so much out of a love for his brother, and that thought makes him more dismal than he already is.

There's been no sign of the undead or of any gangs, though Iceland's practically expecting them to be around every corner.

He doesn't have that much ammo for his rifle, as he gave what little he had to Denmark. Still, it's enough to blow off some heads if it comes to that.

A sound draws Iceland's attention, and his head shoots up to the source. It's the sound of gunfire, and soon it's met with more shots.

"Let's check it out," Denmark says.

Iceland doesn't think that's a good idea, but Denmark wouldn't listen even if he voiced his thoughts. He's far too broken to care.

Canada sighs, and Iceland knows that his thoughts are similar to his own. They follow Denmark, and creep carefully toward the sound. It's coming from behind a short, squat building, and they peer around the corner.

Two gangs, each made of about fifteen members, are having an all-out battle. Corpses are already littering the ground, and the coppery stench of blood has started to permeate the humid air.

They would've gone, gotten the hell out of there, and continued on their way. They might've all made it to Key West, even. All three of them.

But that doesn't happen.

Instead, Canada trips. He lands on his knees on the cracked cement, and lets out an accidental yell of pain. The gangs cease their fire at each other rapidly, and before Canada can get another word out there's a bullet hole in his forehead.

It gives him the appearance of having a gruesome red third eye that stares at them, alive when Canada is not.

"Holy shit," Iceland says, and whips his M16 out to point at the gang. He fully expects Denmark to stay there and return fire, maybe slaughter them all, and isn't surprised.

Denmark steps out from behind the corner of the building and lets all of hell loose on both of the gangs. He doesn't even flinch when a bullet tears through the cloth of his pants and gets embedded in his thigh. Instead, he grits his teeth through the pain and keeps on firing away.

Iceland can see tears dripping their way down Denmark's face. Iceland can feel tears on his own cheeks.

 _Everywhere we go, death isn't far behind us_ , he thinks. _I'm like a bad-luck magnet. Canada would've been better leaving us alone…_

He bites his lip, and holds back a sob. Iceland lifts his gun to his shoulder, and joins Denmark in the firing. He shoots until he has nothing left. Denmark shoots until there is nothing left.

A massacre scene lies in front of them, but the one body that both Iceland and Denmark care about is Canada's.

They drop to their feet beside him, and Iceland tries not to look at the gory mess on his forehead. Denmark bites his lip, and murmurs something that Iceland doesn't catch. The next second, Denmark is standing with his hand outstretched toward Iceland.

"Let's go," he says.

His voice is numb. He's trying to block out the pain, the pain of the knowledge that he can't protect anyone anymore. Iceland is the last thing that he has left.

Iceland nods, and takes his hand, pulling himself to his feet. He leaves his empty gun there, beside Canada, as if leaving him some sort of gift.

He can feel trembling coming from his backpack, and realizes Hanatamago is shaking. Dogs' hearing is remarkable, and the shots must've frightened her.

As Denmark and him walk, he takes Hanatamago out of his backpack and carries her for a while, hugging her close to him as though she's the thing that will protect him from death and pain.

 _I can't save anyone. But we're so close, according to Canada… Denmark has to make it. If he doesn't, I don't think that I can go on_ , Iceland thinks. He looks at Denmark, who's limping. _That's right, he got shot in the leg._

Wounded, like Norway was. But Denmark has to have a different fate. He has to. Iceland hopes all this fervently. He can't be alone, or the demons and memories that hide in his mind are going to kill him.

And Iceland is afraid of death and the pain that it causes.


	19. Chapter 19

They're almost there. The mile marker signs on the edge of the road are slowly getting closer and closer to zero, which Canada had explained was on Key West.

The island that they're on now is Boca Chica Key, and Iceland is fairly sure that Canada had said that this was one of the last ones before their destination.

Denmark's limping heavily, though he hasn't made a sound of pain yet. He didn't even take the bullet out, and Iceland realizes that he's not going to do that until he gets to Key West. Until they get to safety.

They walk in silence, painful silence.

Iceland's given up trying not to think about things. He lets the feelings course through him.

"Denmark?" he asks. His voice is hoarse. They ran out of water a little while ago.

"Yeah?" Denmark responds. They don't stop walking, but Denmark turns his head to look at Iceland.

"Remember that one time when it was Norway's birthday?" Iceland starts, his voice hesitant. "We made him a cake, a huge, multiple-level cake with the Norwegian flag pattern as the frosting. Sweden wanted to give him furniture, Finland wanted to build him a sauna, you wanted to get him a giant box of Legos, and I wanted to give him licorice?"

Denmark nods, and Iceland can see him hesitant to remember all this. But Iceland continues.

"Remember what we ended up getting him?" Iceland asks, and he sees Denmark smile.

"A tub of butter?" he says.

Both Iceland and Denmark had taken the "Butter crisis" as a complete joke, and they mocked Norway constantly for it.

"Yeah," Iceland says, a small grin on his mouth.

They're walking across a bridge now, and Iceland can see on a sign that the next island will be Stock Island. They must be getting close.

"Remember that one time that Sweden took us to that IKEA in Stockholm and you got lost?" Denmark asks, and Iceland finds himself remembering the day exactly.

"Norway almost killed him," Iceland says, "But Finland found me."

"You were laying on one of the beds." Denmark snorts.

"I was tired! That IKEA should've been proclaimed it's own country. It was too big," Iceland says defensively.

"We were just glad that we found you," Denmark says, and he ruffles Iceland's silvery hair with his hand. "We wanted to protect you. We still do." His voice grows sad again, and he meets Iceland's gaze. "When we get to Key West, we'll make them a memorial. A big, grand memorial that they would love, does that sound good?"

Iceland nods. The pain starts to come back, but it's bittersweet now that the other, happier memories are there with it.

Sounds start to reach their ears, and for the first time in months they don't startle when they hear them. Because these sounds are happy ones. They're sounds of civilization. Iceland starts to pick up his pace, and Denmark follows soon after him, though the Dane has started to pant quite loudly.

Their eyes and ears are so focused on making it to safety that they don't pay attention to their surroundings.

Bad idea.

A blur of motion, and Denmark is bowled over by a zombie. It immediately bites into him, and starts to rip at his skin with its teeth.

Denmark kicks it, and Iceland whips out his pistol and shoots the zombie in the head. It falls down, and Iceland gets Denmark up to his feet, draping one of Denmark's arms over his shoulders. They start walking rapidly.

 _Don't think don't think don't think._

They make it a little ways closer to the noises of civilization before Denmark's weight is too heavy for Iceland to bear carrying any longer. He sets him down, and Denmark slumps to the ground.

His lips are trembling, and Iceland can see tears of pain starting to seep down his cheeks. Denmark raises a hand to touch Iceland's face.

"You," he pants, "You gotta make it, okay? For Fin. For Sve. For Nor. And for me."

"No," Iceland says, and it sounds like his voice is coming from far away. Because how could this have happened? It was so sudden…

Denmark smiles up at him through the pain. "I know it's hard, Ice, but we'll be up there, watching over you. You just have to believe in that."

A spasm of agony ripples through Denmark, and he yells out in pain. It hurts to hear him crying like this, and Iceland's heart is shattering.

"Ice," Denmark stutters, breathing faster and faster, "Ice, please, you gotta make this stop. Help me."

He looks into Iceland's eyes. At first, Iceland is confused by what he means, then he remembers the woman that they saw a while ago. The one that Denmark had shot.

Oh god.

Oh _god_.

Denmark wants Iceland to shoot him.

"Denmark…" Iceland whispers. "I can't do that."

"Please, Ice, oh god," Denmark says, his voice rising to a yell of pain. He's thrashing around on the ground. "I can't do this."

Denmark has reached his breaking point., and Iceland realizes that it would be more cruel to let him suffer than to put him out of his misery, like Denmark wants him to do.

He slowly pulls out his pistol. He has one bullet left.

Iceland hugs Denmark one last time, wrapping his arms around the larger man's muscular frame. He's shaking with sobs by the time that he gets slowly to his feet, and places his finger on the trigger.

Denmark lays on the ground, panting. He makes eye contact with Iceland, and a smile comes to his face. "Be good, kiddo," he says.

Iceland has to look away when he pulls the trigger. When the sound of the gun goes off, he waits a few moments before looking at the ground beneath him.

Denmark has a bullet hole on his forehead, much like Canada's. Blood is starting to trickle down. Iceland realizes that he doesn't have that much time before Denmark changes into a zombie.

But Iceland doesn't move.

Instead, he throws his head back and screams. He sobs, screams, cries, yells, and curses at the world for being the way it is. For taking all his family away from him. He cries because Sweden, the strong and stoic one who loved Finland above all else in the world, is dead. He cries because Finland, who was the sweetest person he ever knew, is dead. He cries because Norway, the brother that was always there for him even after he pushed him away so many times, is dead. And now he cries because Denmark, the last remaining member of his family, is dead.

His heart had been divided into four pieces. There was one for each member of his family. And slowly, one by one, they had been shattering and turning into tiny shards that were getting lost and embedding themselves in his thoughts. Now, the last part is gone.


	20. Chapter 20

Iceland would've stayed there forever, or at least until Denmark woke up again as one of the undead and killed him as well, but the people from the Camp West (that's what they were calling what they had set up) found him, and brought him inside the walls.

He didn't eat anything. He didn't drink anything. All around him he could see faces, but they were blurry and didn't mean anything.

Nothing meant anything, not anymore.

Soon, he starts to see familiar faces.

There's France, standing beside him, his normally lustrous hair seeming dull and ordinary. France looks defeated, and the light seems to have gone out of his eyes. He explains how England and Spain both died in the midst of a horde while he was forced to watch from his perch up on a building. He stands beside Iceland for a moment, and gives him the faintest of smiles.

Next, it's Russia. Iceland should've known that he'd survive; he wasn't sure if there was a thing in the world that could kill Russia. His ashen blonde hair was matted, and his eyes were cold. Still, the touch that he gave Iceland on his shoulder was gentle.

Latvia. He explains to Iceland how Estonia and Lithuania died to save him, and he gives Iceland's hand a little squeeze. He's extremely gaunt, and any sort of noise makes him jump with fear.

Netherlands. His hair isn't as spiky as it used to be, and his expression is one of constant defeat. He tells Iceland how he couldn't save them, how he couldn't save Belgium and Luxembourg. How they died in his arms. It hurts him even more when he finds out that Denmark is dead, and he leaves Iceland's room with his head bowed.

Greece. He looks exhausted, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He says how he and Turkey started off together, but the gangs got Turkey before he could rescue him. Greece's posture is bent and crooked, and he stares hollowly off into space, like Finland used to do.

Cuba. It was only a ninety-mile boat trip to Key West, so he had the easiest trip there by far. When Iceland told him how Canada died, he clenched his teeth together so that he wouldn't cry. He was sorry for all the times that he had mistaken Canada for America, and grieved for the fact that he would never be able to apologize to Canada again.

And that was it. Out of all the countries, those were the only ones left. France. Russia. Latvia. Netherlands. Greece. Cuba. And Iceland.

He supposes that he should be at least a little grateful. The other countries take him under their wings, and soon enough he finds himself okay on the outside.

He'll do activities. He'll walk down to the ocean every day, careful not to touch it, with Hanatamago at his feet.

Internally, everything's a grey mess and ruin. His family. His family is gone, and they're never coming back.

In the nights, Iceland will look up at the stars. He'll wonder if they're watching him, if they're able to see him from wherever they are.

He builds them little graves, finding the rock and carving the letters into it himself. He makes one for Germany and Italy and Romano and Canada as well, and even one for Prussia.

But the ones that he truly cares about are those of his family.

Sealand's is small, and a pale bluish grey. An innocent, happy micronation. A memorial for Finland and Sweden's son.

Sweden's is tall and dark. Sweden, who stood by his family. Sweden, who was silent and brave and heroic. Sweden, who had sacrificed himself for the one that he loved most in the entire world.

Finland's is smaller, and the palest of whites. Finland, who would always smile even though he might not truly believe in whatever he was smiling about. Finland, who always tried to look on the bright side. Finland, who made sweets and baked goods for the Nordics, grinning as they ate them together. Finland, who was killed by the one that he loved most.

Norway's is tall and slender, and the grey has a hint of purple in it. Norway, whose shyness kept him around his family more than others. Norway, who was Iceland's precious older brother. Norway, who had found Iceland all alone in the snow so many years ago. Norway, who Iceland had known would always be there for him. Norway, who had let himself die in order to save his family.

Denmark's is big and bright. Denmark, the self-declared leader of the Nordics. Denmark, the one who would always smile the biggest and laugh the loudest. Denmark, who loved his family with a fierce and burning passion. Denmark, who would make jokes that got even Sweden and Norway to crack a smile. Denmark, who had given his all to deliver Iceland to safety. Denmark, who had requested that Iceland shoot him to put him out of his misery.

And Iceland had.

Even though he knows that it was too late, that Denmark was going to turn into a zombie anyways, he still blames himself. He keeps on thinking that maybe if he hadn't shot Denmark, there might've been a cure. Something that would've allowed the last remaining member of his family to accompany him to safety.

The grave markers are beside the sea, in a place where the tides can't get to them.

It's sunset. Iceland is sitting beside them, and he lays a flower from one of Key West's many overgrown gardens on each of their graves.

One for Sealand.

One for Sweden.

One for Finland.

One for Norway.

One for Denmark.

Iceland bows his head. He doesn't cry as much anymore, and the feelings have gotten a little better. His heart is still broken though, and he knows that nothing that he ever does will change that fact.

Hanatamago is sitting beside him. She seems to know so much more than any dog should be able to, and she's realized that the rest of her family is never coming back to her. So she stays with Iceland, and tries to protect him as best she can.

Iceland realizes that Hanatamago is the last thing that he has to remind him of his family. He picks her up, cradling her close to his chest.

He stands.

"Well, Hanatamago," he says. "It's just you and me, and the endless expanse of the sky and ocean." Iceland looks up again. "Don't worry, Hana. They're watching us. They know that we're okay. They know that the didn't die in vain."

He brings his eyes back to the ground, and starts walking away from the graves and heading toward the rest of the nations, his new family.

From somewhere in the evening sky, a star twinkles.

And so life goes on.


End file.
